TO  MY  MOTHER 
J.  M.  S 


502007 


PS  6, 

SSL. 


WHEN  the  Editor  conceived  the  idea  of  bringing  together 
in  one  volume  a  selection  of  the  best  plays  requiring  only 
women  to  cast,  it  was  with  the  sublime  faith  that  is  born  of 
ignorance.  Anthology  making  is  not  an  art:  there  are  no 
chairs  dedicated  to  it  in  our  universities:  it  is  merely  the 
application  of  common  sense  to  a  selective  problem.  The 
editor  can  only  select  from  the  available  material  those 
plays  he  considers  worthy  and  then  write  the  various  authors 
for  permission  to  reprint. 

It  was  not  until  the  Editor  began  to  assemble  the  plays 
that  came  within  the  present  classification  that  he  realized 
how  meagre  the  field  is.  Drama,  he  argued,  was  a  conflict 
between  two  or  more  persons  usually  of  opposite  sexes. 
This  is  not  quite  a  truism.  The  mind  of  the  average  drama 
tist  deals  only  with  conflicts  that  have  both  men  and  women 
as  principals.  He  does  not  always  see  the  problems  that 
persons  of  the  same  sex  have  to  meet  and  deal  with.  These 
problems,  however,  do  exist  and  are,  at  times,  quite  potent. 
Witness  Miss  Alice  Brown's  "Joint  Owners  in  Spain",  and 
Gustave  Wied's  "Autum  Fires." 

Plays  requiring  only  women  to  cast  were  more  or  less 
plentiful  in  the  beginning.  It  early  became  apparent  that 
most  of  them  had  been  written  for  girls'  schools,  Sunday 
Schools  and  institutions  of  like  nature.  They  were  neither 
dramatic  nor  interesting. 

Of  all  these  plays  the  Editor  found  but  twenty  worthy 
of  inclusion.  Of  these  Miss  Brown's  delightful  little  play 
was  not  available  owing  to  copyrights,  and  Miss  Alice 
Gerstenberg's  "Overtones"  has  had  such  wide  circulation 
it  was  decided  it  would  be  better  to  have  other  plays  by  the 


viii  FOREWORD 


same  author.  As  the  volume  stands  before  the  reader,  it  is 
the  Editor's  firm  belief  that  it  contains  the  best  plays  the 
field  affords. 

Certain  plays  in  this  collection  have  male  characters. 
Miss  Millay's  beautiful  play  has  several.  It  is  included  be 
cause  it  was  written  for  an  all-girl  cast  and  was  produced 
at  Vassar  College  in  the  Summer  of  1921  with  just  such  a 
cast.  Miss  Dransfield's  play  is  a  favorite  with  women's 
clubs  and  has  been  produced  more  often  with  a  woman 
cast  than  otherwise.  Miss  McCauley's  "Conflict";  Alfred 
Kreymborg's  "Manikin  and  Minikin",  Maeterlinck's  "The 
Death  of  Tintagiles",  require  boys,  a  character  that  even  in 
legitimate  theatres  is  usually  given  to  a  woman. 

At  the  end  of  the  volume  the  reader  will  find  lists  of  pub 
lished  plays  requiring  only  women  to  cast,  and  titles  of  books 
which  will  be  of  help  in  production. 

It  is  a  pleasure  to  acknowledge  the  gracious  help  in  com 
piling  this  volume  to  Mrs.  Jane  Dransfield  Stone,  Miss 
Evelyn  Emig,  Miss  Alice  Gerstenberg,  Miss  Florence  Clay 
Knox,  Miss  Clarice  Vallette  McCauley,  Miss  Edna  St. 
Vincent  Millay,  Messrs.  Colin  Clements,  Alfred  Kreymborg, 
Christopher  Morley,  Eugene  G.  O'Neill,  Eugene  Pillot,  and 
Howard  Forman  Smith,  for  permission  to  include  examples 
of  their  work.  To  Mr.  Norman  Lee  Swartout  and  Mr. 
Holland  Hudson  thanks  are  also  due  for  many  helpful 
suggestions. 

F.S. 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 


FOREWORD vii 

THE  SIEGE 

^Play  in  One  Act.     Colin  Campbell  Clements       .        3^~~ 
COLUMBINE 

^A  Fantasy  in  One  Act;.  ;  Colin  Campbell  Clements         17 — 
THE  LOST  PLEIAD 

A  Fantasy  in  Two  Acts.     Jane  Dransfield  .        .       29 
-iTHE  CHIN!  PIG 

A  Play  in  One  Act.     Evelyn  Emig    .        .        .       t.       79 — " 
A  PATRONESS 

A  Monologue  in  One  Act.     Alice  Gerstenberg         .       99 
EVER  YOUNG 

A  Play  in  One  Act.     Alice  Gerstenberg    .        ,        .     119— *~ 
FOR  DISTINGUISHED  SERVICE 

A  Comedy  in  One  Act.     Florence  Clay  Knox         .     145 
ROCKING  CHAIRS 

A   Concertino  for   Katydids.     Alfred  Kreymborg     163 

MANIKIN  AND  MINIKIN  i 

\  A  Bisque  Play.     Alfred  Kreymborg  ....     201 
THE  DEATH  OF  TINTAGJLES  y. 

A  Play  in  Five  Acts.     Maurice  Maeterlinck  .        .215 
I  THE  CONFLICT 

A  Plav  in  One  Act.     Clarice  VaUette  McCauley     .     239 — 
THE  LAMP  AND  THE  BELL 

A  Drama  in  Five  Acts.     Edna  St.  Vincent  Millay     267 
REHEARSAL 

r  A. Comedy  in  OneAct.     Christopher  Morley  .        .     335  ~" 

BuJFOitE  BREAKFAST  

V  Play  in  One  Act.     Eugene  G.  O'Neill  .        .        .     351  ~ 
MY  LADY  DREAMS 

A  Play  in  One  Act.     Eugene  Pillot  .        .        .        .     365  ~ 


CONTENTS 


BLACKBERRYIN' 

A  Comedy  in  One  Act.     Howard  Forman  Smith    .     387 

STRONGER  WOMAN 

A  Play  in  One  Act.  August  Strindberg  .        , 

MOTHERLY  LOVE 

^  ^  A  Play  in  One  Act.  August  Strindberg . 

BIBLIOGRAPHIES  .  .       .    "~!     "*. 


' 


A  TREASURY  OF  PLAYS  FOR  WOMEN 


V 


THE  SIEGE 
COLUMBINE 

COLIN  CAMPBELL  CLEMENTS 

COLIN  CAMPBELL  CLEMENTS  was,  until  recently,  con 
nected  with  the  American  Relief  Committee  in  the  Near 
East.  It  was  there  that  he  got  the  material  for  "The  Siege." 
He  has  written  several  plays,  and  has  contributed  to  the 
magazines.  He  makes  his  home  at  Lawrenceville,  N.  J. 


THE  SIEGE 
A  PLAY  IN  ONE  ACT 


BY  COLIN  CAMPBELL  CLEMENTS 


ZANAB 

BISHARA,  her  old  nurse 

GAZNIA,  a  servant 


Characters 


COPTBIGHT,  1922,  BT  STEWAHT  KlDD  CoMPAJTT 

All  rights  reserved 

No  performance  of  this  play,  either  amateur  or  professional,  may  be  given  without  special 
arrangement  with  the  Dramatists'  Play  Agency,  2.18  West  42nd  Street,  New  York  City. 


THE  SIEGE 

A  room  in  an  Oriental  house.  At  the  right  is  an  arched  door, 
leading  to  another  part  of  the  house.  A  door  at  the  left,  partly 
hidden  by  a  large  Oriental  screen  of  carved  wood  and  inlaid 
pearl,  opens  into  a  bedroom.  At  the  back,  'up  one  'step,  is  a 
balcony  with  latticed  windows  overlooking  the  city.  A  low 
round  table^with  a  copper  water  jar  stands  near  the  screen.  The 
only  other  piece  of  furniture  is  a  low  couch,  over  which  a  rug  is 
thrown,  near  the  center  of  the  room. 

When  the  curtains  part,  the  room,  gray  and  somber,  is  empty. 
The  old  servant  enters  from  the  right.  She  arranges  the  pillows  ><>»' 
on  the  couch  and  sees  that  the  water  jar  is  full.  As  she  moves 
quietly  about  the  room  she  glances  now  and  then  at  the  closed 
windows,  —  each  time  with  a  little  exclamation  of  fear.  Once 
she  starts  as  if  to  open  the  shutters,  moves  as  far  as  the  step, 
stops  for  a  moment  and  then  with  a  little  sob  hurries  from  the 
room.  There  is  quietness.  The  wail  of  a  street  dog  is  heard, 
then  quietness  again.  Zanab  enters  from  the  bedroom.  She 
stands,  slowly  turning  from  left  to  right.  Bishara  enters. 

ZANAB.     I  thought  —  I  thought  I  heard  you  here. 
BISHARA.     No  —  I  have  not  been  here.     Perhaps  it  was  Old 

Gaznia  filling  the  water  jar  you  heard. 
ZANAB.    Yes  —  perhaps  it  was  Old  Gaznia.    But  she  has 

not  opened  the  shutters. 
BISHARA.     I  shall  open  them. 
ZANAB.     Yes  —  yes. 

[Bishara  goes  to  the  windows. 

Zanab  turns  quickly. 

No  —  no,  no. 
BISHARA  (she  comes  to  Zanab).    Why  are  you  up  with  the 

dawn? 
ZANAB.    You,  also,  are  here. 


,§..  .  ;.•'...*•::     :    '    'THE  SIEGE 


BISHARA.     I  came  because  I  heard  you. 

ZANAB.     I  was  very  quiet. 

BISHARA.     You  did  not  sleep,  Pretty  One? 

ZANAB.  Sleep !  All  night  I  listened  —  for  sixty  days  and 
sixty  long  nights  I  have  been  listening.  No  —  no,  I  have 
not  slept! 

BISHARA.  But  the  prisoners  have  gone  now.  Last  night  at 
midnight  they  went  away. 

ZANAB.  Last  night  at  midnight  —  so  quietly,  ^e-q«4etly. 
I  stood  at  my  window.  There  was  only  a  flash  and  then 
I  heard  the  carts  as  they  moved  away  in  the  darkness.  I 
heard  the  rumble  of  wooden  wheels  over  the  stones  in  the 
darkness.  They  moved  away  to  the  little  white  road  that 
wanders  through  the  mountains.  Once  a  dog  barked, 
then  all  was  quiet  again.  (She  sighs}  They  are  gone. 
Those  people  who  came  to  bring  peace  to  us  who  have 
never  known  peace,  who  came  to  bring  civilization  to  us 
who  have  never  known  civilization  —  they  have  gone 
away.  '  They  have  been  driven  away.  Oh,  Bishara,  must 
we  always,  always,  always  be  caged  things?  I  am  afraid! 
(She  puts  out  her  hand  to  meet  Bishara? s)  I  —  am  —  afraid. 

BISHARA.  It  is  over  now,  the  siege  has  been  lifted  and  the 
prisoners  have  been  allowed  to  go  away  in  safety. 

ZANAB.  The  siege !  For  sixty  days  without  food  —  with 
out  water,  and  still  they  fought!  They  were  surrounded 
—  they  were  like  rats  in  a  trap.  And  still  they  fought ! 
Always  I  prayed  Allah  to  send  them  help.  Always  I  sat 
at  that  window  — 

BISHARA.     I  know  —  I  know. 

ZANAB.  Waiting  —  waiting  for  help.  (She  turns  her  head 
away)  Waiting  for  help  that  never  came.  Bishara,  I 
am  afraid  for  them. 

BISHARA.  Saeed  promised  them  safety  to  the  border  of  his 
land  —  he  will  keep  his  word. 

ZANAB.  Can  he  keep  his  word?  (Bishara  moves  away) 
Saeed  is  a  coward.  Can  he  keep  his  word?  Can  any 
coward  keep  his  word? 


THE  SIEGE  9 


BISHARA.     Saeed  is  your  betrothed. 

ZANAB  (her  arms  fall  to  her  side).  *\  am  his  prisoner. 
(A  low  chant  is  heard  from  the  city.    Zanab  starts) 
What  —  what  is  that? 

BISHARA.  It  is  —  it  is  the  muezzin  calling  the  morning 
prayer. 

ZANAB.  But  the  sun  cannot  be  up  yet.  It  is  not  time  for 
the  morning  prayer.  Open  the  windows !  (Bishara  starts 
toward  the  balcony)  No,  no  —  let  them  be  shut.  I  am 
afraid.  Bishara,  I  am  afraid  —  for  him!  No,  do  not 
open  the  windows. 

BISHARA.     But  it  is  daylight. 

ZANAB.  They  went  through  the  mountains  —  the  mountains 
are  treacherous. 

BISHARA.    Ah,  they  have  surely  reached  the  plains  beyond 
the  mountains.     It  is  daylight. 
[The  chant  is  heard  again. 

ZANAB.     Hear  —  what  is  that? 

BISHARA  (as  she  listens).  Yes,  it  is  daylight.  The  muezzin 
is  calling  the  morning  prayer  —  calling  his  people  to 
prayer. 

ZANAB.     His  call  is  dismal. 

BISHARA.     Calling  his  people  to  prayer. 

ZANAB.  To  prayer !  To  pray  one  must  first  love.  What  do 
the  muezzin's  people  know  of  love?  (She  turns)  Oh, 
they  could  have  learned  but  they  have  driven  love  away. 
They  could  have  learned.  They  could  have  learned! 
(She  covers  her  face)  My  love!  My  love!  My  love!  They 
have-driven-  k>ve  away  —  Andr6  — >  Andre  —  Andre.  (She 
runs  to  the  window  and  with  her  head  against  the  closed 
shutters,  sobs)  Andre  —  they  have  driven  you  away.  The 
little  white  road  has  carried  you  away  through  the  moun 
tains  and  beyond  —  beyond.  I  heard  the  wooden  carts 
as  they  moved  away  in  the  darkness,  Andre.  You  went 
with  them!  But  I  shall  be  here  waiting  for  you  always  — 
always.  Andre,  your  Zan  «  little  Zanab  will  wait 

for  you  —  always.     She  ach  the  little  white  road 


10  THE  SIEGE 


for  your  return.     You  promised  you  would  come  back! 
Andre  —  Andre. 

BISHARA.     Sh-h-h!    He'll  kill  us.     Saeed  will  hear  you.     He 
has  spies  everywhere.     He  will  kill  us. 

ZANAB.     Kill  —  kill  us?    Who  is  afraid  of  death,  here? 

BISHARA  (she  takes  Zanab  by  the  arm  and  leads  her  to  the  couch) . 

-No— no*  -  Oh,  they  have  reached  the  plains  beyond  the 

mountains  and  Andre  with  his  brave  men  are  on  the  wide 

-4x>ad  now,  the -wide  road  that  leads  to  their  own  country. 

ZANAB.  On  the  wide  road  —  yes.  Andre  must  be  on  the 
wide  road  that  leads  to  his  own  country!  I  shall  not  be 
afraid  any  more.  His  own  country.  Do  you  remember, 
<0'ABishara,  do  you  remember  how  he  used  to  tell  us  about  his 
country?  (Bishara  slips  to  the  floor  beside  the  couch  and 
listens)  You  remember  he  told  us  about  those  great  green 
trees  —  those  great  green  poplar  trees  that  reach  to  the 
stars?  To  the  stars,  he  said  —  and  underneath  were  wide 
green  places  full  of  flowers  and  butterflies  and  laughter. 
He  smiled  so  when  he  told  us  about  it.  I  shan't  forget 
how  he  smiled.  And  do  you  remember  the  day  he  told  us 
about  the  boats  —  little  boats  with  blue  and  yellow  sails  — 
and  he  made  a  paper  boat  for  us.  Do  you  remember? 
And  Gaznia  put  it  sailing  in  a  silver  bowl?  I  should  like 
to  have  ridden  in  a  boat,  over  the  water  —  so  —  and  so  — 
and  so  —  And  he  told  us  of  the  fisher  folk  who  go  down 
to  the  sea,  the  fisher  folk  who  always  sing.  (She  sings  a 
snatch  of  a  French  song)  A»dr:Brshara,  do  you  remember 
when  he  told  us  the  story  of  -—  Ah,  yes,  yes,  I  know  you 
do  remember,  for  there  is  laughter  in  your  eyes.  And 
the  young  girls,  the  pretty  young  girls  who  wear  white 
headdresses.  Oh,  they  must  be  lovely,  those  pretty 
young  girls !  He  said  —  he  said  I  could  have  a  headdress 
too  and  — 

BISHARA  (she  comes  to  Zanab  and  takes  her  hand).     Little 
Sweet  — 

ZANAB.     Lovely  girls  —  and  they  never  lived,  like  us,  behind 
barred  windows  or  went  about  with  their  faces  always 


THE  SIEGE  11 


covered  —  and   they   danced   hand-in-hand   through   the 
gold  of  sunset,  like  white  butterflies.     Do  you  remember 
when  Andre  told  us  — 
BISHARA.     Sh-h-h. 

ZANAB.       But  Jj( 

BISHARA.     Saeed  will  kill  us'  JJ*^ 

ZANAB.     Perhaps  —  perhaps,  but  I  shall  tell  him  — 

BISHARA  (she  draws  away) .  No,  no  —  no !  Promise  me  you 
will  not  do  that  —  premise  me,  promise  me  you  won't  do 
that!  (Weeping,  she  sinks  to  her  knees  at  ZanaVs  feet) 
Promise  me  you  will  not  tell  Saeed ! 

ZANAB.     I  —  shall  —  not  -  -.tell  —  him. 

BISHARA.     Oh ! 

ZANAB.  You  and  I  shall  have  that  secret  always  —  forever. 
You  and  I.  Just  us.  Alone,  we  shall  talk  of  the  poplar 
trees  that  reach  to  the  stars  and  the  little  boats  with  blue 
and  — 

BISHARA.     You  must  forget.     It  is  best  to  forget. 

ZANAB  (she  rises).  Forget  —  forget?  It  is  impossible  to 
forget  one's  —  heart.  No,  I  can  never  forget.  —  I  shall 
always  remember. 

BISHARA.     He  has  gone  back  to  his  own  country. 

ZANAB  (she  talks  very  slowly) .  To  his  own  country  —  Ah. 
To  his  own  country.  Yes,  he  was  different  from  this  — 
all  this.  So  happy,  so  gay  —  so  kind.  Yes,  he  was  quite 
different.  Bishara,  do  you  remember  you  used  to  go  out 
and  bring  him  to  me?  (She  laughs  softly)  Do  you  re 
member?  He  was  so  funny  in  that  long  black  coat  —  so 
funny ! 

BISHARA  (she  covers  her  mouth  with  her  hand).  -  Sh-h-h.  You 
must  forget.  Andre  was  of  another  life;  he  was  of  another 
chapter  and  the  leaf  has  been  turned  over.  We  go  on  to 
new  stories.  You  must  forget  even  as  he  has  forgotten. 

ZANAB.  Forgotten?  Do  you  believe  he  will  forget?  Do 
you  believe  he  has  already  forgotten  me?  Yes  —  yes, 
perhaps  a  man  always  forgets  —  because  he  is  a  man.  Oh, 
but  a  woman,  a  woman  never  forgets,  eh,  Bishara?  A 


12  THE  SIEGE 


woman  never  forgets.  Surely  he  can't  forget  everything! 
I  Do  you  remember  the  night  daring  Ramadan  when  you 
brought  him  through  —  that  door?  And  he  threw  off 
his  cloak  like  this  —  and  stood  before  me  like  some  strange 
god  from  the  skies  —  like  some  strange  god  from  an  old 
story  book?  Bishara,  his  hair  was  like  spun  gold!  He 
was  like  — 

BISHARA.     Sh-h-h !    Some  one  may  hear  you !    Allah ! 

ZANAB.  And  Gaznia  brought  us  sweetmeats  from  the 
bazaars  and  played  for  us  on  the  pipes  —  and  I  danced? 
Oh  —  the  jasmine  was  in  bloom,  then.  I  think  it  will  never, 
never  be  so  sweet  again  as  it  was  that  night  —  never  so 
sweet  again.  And  the  stars  were  very  bright;  they  hung 
from  the  skies  like  silver  lamps.  I  think  the  stars  will 
never  come  so  close  to  earth  again.  (Softly)  Bishara  — 
life  was  sweet  then. 

BISHARA.  Little  Bird  —  Little  Bird,  he  has  gone  away. 
You  must  forget.  He  has  gone  away.  He  will  forget. 
It _is  best  to  forget.  Life  is  like  that  —  it  is  best  to 
forget. 

ZANAB.  But  I  shall  never  forget.  Why  do  you  talk  to  me 
so?  I  can  never  forget  —  all  through  the  nights  I  shall 
dream  of  him,  as  I  saw  him  last,  here  before  me  —  all 
through  the  nights  I  shall  dream  of  him  and  all  through 
the  days  I  shall  think  of  him — Andre,  What  is,  is - 
we  cannot  change  it,  Bishara.  (She  throws  out  her  arms) 
In  my  dreams  I  shall  be  with  him  there  in  his  own  country 
—  even  as  I  was  with  him^here,  with  him,  under  the  trees 
and  the  stars,  with  him  in  the  little  blue  boats  upon  the 
water,  with  him  — 

[  The  door  at  the  back  opens.     Gaznia  enters.    She  is  carry 
ing  a  large  silver  tray.    / 
'  BISHARA.     Sh-h-h!     Sh-h-h! 

[Zanab  sits  down  again.  Gaznia  places  the  tray  upon  a  small 
table  near  the  couch  and  brings  the  water  jar  and  a  silver  bowl 
from  the  screen.  She  pours  fresh  water  over  Za'iab's  hands. 

ZANAB.     You  look  very  tired,  Gaznia. 


THE   SIEGE 


13 


GAZNIA.     Little  sister  of  the  moon  —  I  —  I  am  very  tired. 

ZANAB.     You  have  not  slept  well? 

GAZNIA  (she  glances  around  the  room  with  frightened  eyes). 

I  —  I  did  not  sleep. 
ZANAB  (she  laughs).     You  are  in  love? 
BISHARA.     Sh-h-h ! 
ZANAB.     You  are  in  love,  Gaznia? 
GAZNIA  (softly).    I  was  in  love  with  love. 
BISHARA  (she  turns  and  whispers).    We  shall  all  be  killed ! 
ZANAB.      In    love    with    love?      In  —  love  —  with  —  love. 

Gaznia,  let  in  the  sunlight.     Open  the  windows  wide.     We 

shall  need  the  sunshine  to-day.         / 

[Gaznia  moves  toward  the  windows.     Zanab  begins  to  drink 

the  coffee  which  has  been  placed  before  her.     She  is  about  to 

put  down  the  cup  when  Bishara  moves  toward  her. 
BISHARA.     Little  one  — 
ZANAB.     The  coffee  is  so  black. 
BISHARA.     My  Lovely  One,  let  me  put  the  water  of  roses  in 

your  cup. 

[She  pours  from  a  small  silver  pitcher.    Zanab  tastes  the 

coffee. 
ZANAB.     It  is  so  sweet  —  too  sweet. 

[Gaznia  reaches  out  her  hand  to  swing  open  the  windows  but, 

in  fear,  draws  back  her  hand. 
GAZNIA.     Oh-h-h. 
ZANAB  (she  has  not  seen  Gaznia's  fear  of  opening  the  window.) 

Let  in  the  sunlight  —  swing  open  the  windows,  Gaznia. 

(She  gives  Bishara  the  cup)     Put  it  down,  I  cannot  drink 

this  morning,  I  cannot  drink.     No,  I  shall  watch  the  sun 

make  patterns  through  the  lattice.     I  shall  watch  the  sun 

chase  the  little  frightened   shadows   across  the  marble 

floor.     Open  the  windows,  Gaznia. 

[Gaznia  swings  open  the  windows.     Terrified,  she  stands 

looking  down  into  the  streets,  then  begins  to  weep. 
BISHARA  (she  runs  to  the  window).    What  is  it,  Gaznia?    (She 

looks  out)     What  is  it?    There  is  —  there  is  —  there  is  no 

one  in  the  streets! 


14  THE  SIEGE 


ZANAB.  There  is  no  one  in  the  streets?  What  does  it  mean? 
What  does  it  mean? 

GAZNIA.  Hear  me  —  the  muezzin  this  morning,  the  muezzin, 
even  before  dawn,  called  out  for  all  good  Mohammedans 
to  go  out  —  to  go  out  upon  the  white  road  —  out  into  the 
mountains  and  overtake  the  freed  prisoners.  There  is  no 
one  in  the  streets.  (She  covers  her  face  with  her  hands) 
There  is  no  one  in  the  streets !  They  have  all  gone !  They 
have  all  gone  out  into  the  mountains. 
[She  flees  from  the  room. 

ZANAB.  The  muezzin  —  this  morning  —  before  dawn  — 
called  —  You  told  me  it  was  the  call  to  prayer !  You  lied ! 

BISHARA  (who  has  sunk  to  the  floor).  I  did  not  know!  I  did 
not  know! 

ZANAB.  They  have  gone  out  to  overtake  the  soldiers  —  to 
kill  them!  They  have  gone  out  to  kill  the  Christians! 
They  have  gone  to  the  mountains!  The  muezzin  has 
called  them.  Saeed  has  broken  his  word  —  he  has  lied! 
Saeed  always  lies !  He  is  a  coward  —  a  coward  —  he  lied ! 
Bishara,  do  you  hear,  the  muezzin  has  called  them  —  they 
have  gone  —  the  streets  are  empty !  Saeed  has  broken 
his  word.  Every  man  has  gone  out  to  —  gone  out  into 
the  mountains  to  —  kill.  Bishara,  do  you  hear  —  to  kill ! 

BISHARA.  The  prisoners  were  given  permission  to  go  in 
honor  —  they  have  their  guns  and  their  ammunition  with 
them.  They  will  again  fight. 

ZANAB.  The—  muezzin  has  called  —  perhaps  —  perhaps, 
Saeed  had  men  hidden  in  the  mountains  waiting  —  wait 
ing,  like  thieves,  like  murderers,  like  —  They  will  cut  off 
the  camels  and  the  little  wooden  carts  and  then  — 

BISHARA.  Ah  —  but  surely  they  have  reached  the  plains 
beyond  the  mountains.  They  surely  have  reached  the 
plains  —  the  plains  — 

ZANAB.     A  camel  train  moves  slowly  and  the  wooden  carts  — 

-BISHARA  (bravely).    But  surely  —  yes,  yes,  they  have  reached 
the  plains  beyond  the  mountains.     They  are  safe. 
[Shouts  and  firing  from  afar  are  heard. 


THE  SIEGE  15 


ZANAB.     What  is  that? 

BISHARA  (she  raises  her  head  and  listens).    I  heard  nothing. 
I  hear  nothing. 

[The  shouts  are  heard  again.  The  two  women  stand  looking 
at  each  other  in  silence.  The  shouts  are  heard  as  though  a 
great  crowd  of  men  were  drawing  nearer.  Zanab  moves  to 
the  window  and  looks  out.  Bishara  crawls  to  the  step  of  the 
balcony  >^.lj(hli*  \ 

ZANAB.  See!  They  are  coming  down  the  little  white  road. 
They  are  coming  into  the  town  —  they  are  coming  down 
the  little  white  road  —  the  little  white  road  from  the 
mountains.  Men,  men,  men  —  walking,  running,  on 
horseback.  It  is  like  a  great  black  river.  It  is  like  — 
See,  they  are  like  flies!  Bishara,  what  is  that?  Look! 
They  are  leading  —  see,  they  are  leading  camels !  One  — 
two  —  three  —  four  —  five  —  (She  shrieks)  They  have 
killed  —  no  —  no  —  no !  (She  covers  her  mouth  with  her 
hand)  They  have  —  no  —  no  —  no.  Look !  The  little 
wooden  carts.  Yes!  Look!  There  are  men  on  white 
horses  —  -they  are  galloping  ahead.  They  are  —  what 
is  it?  (The  shouts  become  louder)  See  —  see,  they  have 
something  on  their  spears.  Flags?  No!  It  must  be  flags. 
(She  leans  out)  •  Bishara,  they  are  carrying  back  —  heads ! 
Heads  upon  their  spears!  Bishara!  Bishara!  Where  are 
you  —  where  have  you  gone?  It  is  so  dark.  Bishara! 
(Bishara  sobs  aloud.  Zanab  turns.  Her  eyes  have  become 
wild.  She  comes  forward,  groping  her  way  as  if  she  were 
walking  in  the  dark)  They  are  bringing  back  the  —  Saeed 
lied !  The  muezzin  has  —  (She  is  silent  for  a  moment) 
They  have  never  reached  the  plains  —  they  have  been 
caught  in  the  mountains!  (She  stands  swaying  back  and 
forth)  Andre  —  Andre  —  Andr6,  for  you  and  me  there 
will  never  be  any  more  green  trees  —  no  little  blue  boats 
upon  the  water  —  there  will  never  be  —  Andre !  Andre ! 
(Bishara  runs  to  her  and  tries  to  comfort  her.  Zanab  brushes 
her  away) 
No!  No!  No!  It  is  too  late,  now!  (Bishara  backs  away 


16  THE  SIEGE 


and  stands  helplessly  leaning  against  the  wall)  Andre,  you 
will  never  come  back  alive!  They  have  lied  to  you!  My 
people  have  lied  to  you.  (Her  voice  changes)  No  more 
little  whisperings  —  we  shall  never  dance  again.  No, 
Andre  —  we  shall  never  dance  again.  (She  covers  her  face 
with  her  hands  and  begins  to  laugh  softly)  How  dark  it  is! 
How  —  strange  —  it  —  all  —  is !  Yes  —  yes  —  open  the 
windows,  Andre  —  let  in  the  sunlight,  Andre.  Let  in  the 
sunlight  —  the  sunlight  —  the  sun  — 
[Zanab  sinks  to  the  floor.  Bishara  runs  to  her  and  with  a 
shriek  bends  over  Zanab's  body  as  the  curtains  are  drawn.  > 


COLUMBTNE 

A  FANTASY  IN  ONE  ACT 


BY  COLIN  CAMPBELL  CLEMENTS 


„   T 


Characters 

MINNIE 

SALLY 

ONE  UNSEEN 


COPTBIGHT,  19£2,  BT  STEWABT  KlDD  CoHPAHT. 

All  rightt  reiened. 

No  performance  of  this  play,  either  amateur  or  professional,  may  be  given  without  special 
arrangement  with  the  author's  representative,  The  Dramatists' Play  Agency,  213  West  42ud 
Street,  New  York  City. 


COLUMBINE 

//  the  room  were  not  so  dark  we  could  see  a  bed  pushed  up  into 
the  corner.  There  is  a  window  below  it  at  the  back  and  a  door 
leading  off  right.  Below  the  door,  before  a  small  table  on  which 
stands  a  smoky  lamp,  Minnie  is  busily  curling  her  hair.  She 
sings  as  she  works  —  a  jerky  sort  of  tune  it  is  and  slightly  off 
key. 

MINNIE  (trying  the  iron).    Darned  hot!    (Suddenly) 

"And  when  she  was  good, 

She  was  very,  very  good, 

And  when  she  was  bad  she  was  — " 

Oh,  damn !    Scorched  it  again  —  scorched  it  again !     (She 
combs  out  the  remains  of  what  might  have  been  a  curl) 

''And  when  she  was  good, 

She  was  ve — " 

(The  door  slowly  opens  and  Sally  enters) 
Hello,  Sal,  O'thing.  (She  turns)  There,  finished.  How  do 
I  look  from  the  neck  up?  Gee,  I  wish  I  had  natural  curly 
hair  like  yours  —  and  yellow.  Believe  me,  it's  an  awful 
worry... to. a- woman  —  keeping  up  her  good  looks.  Say, 
hand  me  my  red  dress  of'n  the  bed,  will  you,  Sal?  (Minnie 
slips  the  dress  on)  You  don't  mind  doing  me  up  the  back? 
Look,  have  you  noticed  —  have  you  noticed  ?  Fur  trim 
ming!  It  covers  up  the  holr  Jim  burned  in  it  with  his  old 
cigarette  ashes.  .  A  man  ain't  got  no  right  to  make  love 
»and  smoke  at  the  sau  :ime  anyho\fr.  Look  something 
like  old  Fifth  Avenue  I  do  now,  eh?  Imitation  ermine  — 
got  it  at  Schultze's  for  only  eighty-three  cents,  the  whole 
bunch  of  it.  But  you  never  could  tell  it  from  the  real 
stuff,  now  could  you  —  if  you  didn't  come  too  close? 
SAXLY.  I  think  it  c.s  very  nice. 


20  COLUMBINE 


MINNIE.  I  got  off  early  to  come  home  and  sew  it  on.  Told 
old  man  Grippen  I  had  a  headache  and  he  let  me  off  — 
that's  what  I  like  about  a  man  for  a  boss,  you  can  always 
work  'em.  (She  smiles)  Men  are  ^o  darned  easy!  I  do 
have  to  be  dolled  up  for  this  dance  to-night.  It's  down  in 
Flannigan's  hall  and  you  know  the  bunch  down  there. 
Gee,  a  fellow  won't  have  nothing  to  do  with  a  girl  that 
don't  dress.  That's  the  whole  trouble  with  you,  Sal,  you 
don't  dress.  With  you  it's  always  black  or  white  or  gray; 
of  course  you  do  look  cute,  Sally,  but  like  a  —  like  a  wall 
flower  and  no  fellow  wants  to  go  round  with  a  wall 
flower.  Say,  you  ought  to  see  the  fellow  I've  got  for 
to-night  —  a  drummer  from  St.  Louis.  I'm  going  to  meet 
him  down  by  the  subway  and  he's  going  to  take  me  in  a 
Black  and  White  taxi,  just  as  if  I  was  a  regular  jane.  Little 
one,  you  ought  to  cop  on  to  some  one  like  that.  You've 
certainly  got  the  looks  for  it. 

SALLY.     But  I  don't  want  to  go  to  —  those  places. 

MINNIE.  Those  places!  What  do  you  want?  A  box  at  the 
opera  and  swell  dinners  at  the  Ritz?  Well,  so  do  I,  but 
they  don't  come  every  day  —  not  every  day. 

SALLY.  I  just  want  a  home  of  my  own  like  other  girls 
have. 

MINNIE.  A  home  like  other  girls!  My  Gaud-!  Don't  you 
know  what  that  means  for  our  kind?  A  dirty  little  back 
room  somewher^  with  kids  and  dirt  and  smell  and  more 
than  likely  a  drunken  husband  what  beats  you  Not  for 
me !  You  don't  think  you're  going  to  have  things  like  them 
society  girls  that  come  snooping  around  here  to  find  out 
how  we  live,  do  you?  Limousines  and  footmen  and  dogs 
and  furs  and  silk  stockings  for  every  day.  You  and  me 
ain't  born  to  it,  that's  all.  »,/ 

SALLY.  We  are !  My  mother  used  to  —  she  had  the  best 
looking  ankles  in  the  world  and  — 

MINNIE.  Them  girls  come  poking  around  our  places  putting 
fool  notions  in  our  heads  and  inviting  us  to  their  settle 
ment  clubs,  where  we  never  meet  anybody  but  our  own 


COLUMBINE 


kind.  But  they  never  invite  us  into  their  homes,  do  they? 
(She  lights  a  cigarette)  Sal,  you  ought  to  go  out  more. 

SALLY.     I've  been  waiting. 

MINNIE.  Waiting!  Oh  —  o.  Say,  you  don't  expect  any 
body  to  just  come  and  find  you  waiting,  dp  you?  You  sit 
here  alone  night  after  night,  just  sit.  And  when  you  go 
down  to  work,  what  have  you  got  to  think  about  during 
the  whole  day?  What  have  you  got  to  laugh  about? 
What  have  you  got  to  tell  the  other  girls?  Then,  like 
everybody  else,  you  keep  getting  older  and  older.  What 
are  you  going  to  do  then? 

SALLY.  I  suppose  everybody  must  come  to  the  end  —  some 
time. 

MINNIE  (walking  to  the  center  of  the  room,  she  turns).  I  don't 
want  to  think  about  that!  I  don't  want  to  think  about 
the  —  end !  I'm  young !  I  want  to  laugh !  I  want  to  feel ! 
I  want  to  live !  I  want  to  hear  the  music  —  and  see  the 
lights  —  and  be  part  of  the  big  crowd,  just  as  long  as  I 
can.  It's  all  there  is  to  do  —  for  me.  (She  stands  for  a 
moment  and  then  with  an  hysterical  little  laugh  turns  toward 
Sally)  My  Gaud  —  who's  been  hanging  flowers  on  you ! 
(Sally's  hand  goes  quickly  over  the  white  rose  at  her  belt) 
Sal,  who's  been  pinning  white  roses  on  you? 

SALLY.     It's  from  a  boy  who  — 

MINNIE.     A  boy !     (She  comes  closer)    Sally  —  don't  tell  me 

1-    you  're  in  love  with  a  man. 

SALLY.     I  think  —  yes,  I  am  in  love. 

MINNIE.  You !  You  in  love !  (She  sinks  into  a  chair)  Gaud, 
this  is  the  last  straw!  Now  I'll  have  to  stay  home  nights 
and  chaperon  you. 

SALLY.     I've  hoped  and  waited  and  waited  and  now  — 

MINNIE.     And  missed  a  lot  of  fun  just  waiting  for  —  nothing. 

SALLY.     And  at  last  he  has  come  —  love  has  come. 

MINNIE.  Poor  little  mouse.  Love!  Oh,  if  you  only  knew 
what  I  know.  Love  isn't  made  for  our  kind. 

SALLY.  Why,  love  is  for  everybody.  Every  girl  dreams  of 
having  a  home  all  of  her  own  sometime. 


COLUMBINE 


MINNIE.  Do  you  know  what  that  means?  It  means  frying 
greasy  potatoes  and  washing  clothes  —  and  getting  old 
and  hard  and  ugly.  It's  all  there  is  for  us,  just  that. 
I'm  going  to  get  away  from  it  all,  I'm  going  to  be  free  until 

—  until  the  end. 

SALLY.     But  if  a  man  loves  a  woman  — 

MINNIE.     He  doesn't  marry  her.     Men  don't  marry  women 

they  really  love. 
SALLY.     Oh ! 
MINNIE.     The  only  reason  men  ever  get  married  is  so  they 

won't  have  to  wash  their  own  socks! 
SALLY.     No  —  no  —  no. 
MINNIE.     It  takes  more  than  love  to  get  over  the  hard  places 

—  it  takes  more  than  love  to  keep  alive.     Romance  has 
to  be  fed  with  three  square  meals  a  day,  take  it  from 
me,  or  it  don't  last  long.     Oh,  it's  all  right  in  books  but 
it  don't  work  out  in  real  life.      I've  seen  it  tried  again  and 
again  and  again.     It's  filthy. 

SALLY.     No!    Real  love  is  clean  —  clean  as  this  white  rose. 
MINNIE  (taking  the  rose).     As  this  white  rose.     Who  knows 

—  even  it  may  have  a  worm  eating  at  its  heart.     White 
rose,  grown  in  a  greenhouse,  sheltered  from  the  dirt  of  the 
city  —  that's  what  it  is.     But  you  don't  find  'em  growing 
down  on  these  dirty  streets  and  black  holes  where  we  live, 
Sally,  you  don't.     Maybe  if  you  and  me  had  always  been 
taken  care  of  and  lived  in  a  clean  place  where  there  was 
sun  and  flowers,  instead  of  a  place  like  this  —  where  it's 
always  dark  and  smelly  and  noisy  —  well,  perhaps  we 
would  be  different  too.     (She  sighs)    But  we  weren't  and 
it's  too  late  to  change  now.     There's  nothing  to  do  but 
just  go  on  as  we  are  until  —  just  keep  on  as  we  are.     Love ! 
It  ain't  real,  Sally.     (She  pauses)     I  wish  —  I  wish   to 
Gaud  I  could  believe  it  was!     (She  rises  and  with  a  little 
shudder,  throws  the  flower  on  the  table.     She  walks  slowly 
toward  the  door.     Turning)    Who's  the  fellow? 

SALLY.     A  boy  —  Harlequin. 
MINNIE.     Harlequin  what? 


COLUMBINE  23 


SALLY.     Just  Harlequin,  that's  all. 

MINNIE.     Just  Harlequin  —  sounds  suspicious. 

SALLY.     He's  wonderful. 

MINNIE.  Of  course  you'd  think  so,  until  to-morrow  —  or 
the  day  after. 

SALLY.     I  shall  think  so  always.     (Very  low)    And  to-night 

-  to-night  he's  coming  with  the  new  moon  to  take  me 

away  from  all  this  —  to  a  place  where  there  is  always  sun 

~  and  flowers  and  birds.     The  sort  of  a  place  you  said  — 

MINNIE.     But  is  he  — 

SALLY.  And  we're  going  to  live  in  a  little  house  with  holly 
hocks  against  the  red  brick  wall  and  little  green  boxes  of 
red  geraniums  at  all  the  windows  and  dotted  swiss  curtains 
inside  and  — 

MINNIE.  Hm-m.  Sounds  like  stories  they  tell  about  heaven. 
Say,  where,  where  did  you  meet  this  guy  —  Harlequin? 

SALLY.     In  the  park  first  —  almost  a  week  ago. 

MINNIE.  Oh,  that's  what's  been  the  matter  with  you  lately. 
Why  didn't  you  tell  me  about  it? 

SALLY.     You  wouldn't  have  believed  me. 

MINNIE.  I  don't  —  not  all  that  stuff  about  hollyhocks 
against  red  brick  walls  and  the  rest  of  it.  (She  laughs) 
What's  he  do? 

SALLY.  He  is  a  painter  —  and  he  sings  songs  and  he  made 
some  sketches  of  me  in  the  park  one  day  and  sang  me  a 
little  song  and  — 

MINNIE.     You  mean  he's  an  artist? 

SALLY.     Yes. 

MINNIE.  That  finishes  it,  worst  kind  —  them  artists. 
Regular  bums,  no  money,  no  nothing  but  a  lot  of  foolish 
ideas  and  a  lot  of  green  paint.  Oh,  I  know  that  sort.  I 
fell  for  one  once  myself.  Gee,  he  was  swell  to  look  at  — 
long  curly  hair  and  one  of  them  soft  bow  ties  and  every 
thing,  you  know.  Gaud,  but  he  was  hansome  and  he  made 
cartoons  for  a  Sunday  paper.  But  come  to  find  out  he 
already  had  a  wife  and  three  kids  besides.  (She  laughs) 
"And  dotted  swiss  curtains  inside!" 


COLUMBINE 


SALLY.  But  he  isn't  a  bum !  He  works  —  he  works  in  a 
florist's  shop  during  the  mornings  and  in  the  afternoons  he 
paints  — 

MINNIE.  Oh,  in  a  flores'  shop.  Thus  the  flowers,  eh !  Stingy 
-  with  only  giving  you  one  rose.  Say,  if  I'd  a  fellow 
what  worked  in  a  greenhouse  I'd  go  to  bed  every  night  with 
roses  at  my  head  and  lilies  at  my  feet. 

SALLY.     He  paints  pictures. 

MINNIE.     That  struggling  sort  —  bah ! 

SALLY.  He's  sold  some  of  them  too  —  and  saved  the  money. 
That's  how  we're  going  to  build  the  little  place  in  the 
country  and  live  together,  and  work  together  —  until  the 
end.  One  can't  be  afraid  that  way,  Minnie. 

MINNIE.     I  used  to  get  like  that  too  —  pipe  dreams. 

SALLY.  Only  you  think  so.  You  know  my  mother  used  to 
be  a  dancer.  I  always  wanted  to  be  one  too  but  my  father 
thought  millinery  was  better  —  that's  how  we  happened 
to  come  to  New  York.  But  we  all  loved  the  country  — 
specially  my  mother  —  she  liked  the  birds  so.  My  father 
used  to  call  her  his  little  dream  girl  and  then  after  she  — 
died,  I  became  his  little  dream  girl  —  that's  the  reason 
I  believe  in  dreams  —  and  dreams  do  come  true. 

MINNIE.     You  mean  — 

SALLY.  Dreams  do  come  true.  And  so  to-night  —  to 
night  with  the  new  moon,  Harlequin  is  coming  to  take 
away  his  Columbine. 

MINNIE.     Who's  that? 

SALLY.     Why  —  why,  that's  what  he  calls  me! 

MINNIE  (throwing  the  hat,  which  she  has  been  bending  into  shape, 
down  on  the  bed).  He's  coming  here?  To-night?  Then 
I'm  staying  home  to-night! 

SALLY.     You  —  staying  —  home? 

MINNIE.  Straight,  Sally.  I  don't  like  fellows  who  go 
around  drawing  pictures  of  girls  in  the  park,  specially  you. 

SALLY.  But  he  doesn't  draw  every  girl's  picture.  He  was 
eating  his  lunch  —  and  so  was  I.  That's  how  it  all  began. 

MINNIE.     Oh !  and  then  — 


COLUMBINE  25 


SALLY.  He  sang  a  little  song  for  me.  A  little  song  I've 
known  ever  since  I  was  a  child  and  when  he  sang,  it  seemed 
as  if  I  had  known  him  forever  and  ever. 

MINNIE.  Yes,  I  know.  You  fell  for  him  —  fell  for  him  hard. 
And  now  he  wants  to  come  and  —  carry  you  off,  in  the 
night ! 

SALLY.  But  I  want  to  go !  He  was  perfectly  willing  to  come 
in  broad  daylight.  But  night  —  night  seemed  more  sort 
of  romantic.  It  was  me  who  suggested  his  coming  at 
night. 

MINNIE.     You,  Sally,  you? 

SALLY  (coming  forward).  Yes,  me  —  and  I'm  not  ashamed 
of  it!  (Every  girl  wants  a  romance.  Every  girl  wants 
the  man  she  loves  —  and  I've  found  my  man.  I'm  going 
to  help  him  —  work  for  him,  live  for  him,  love  him  — 
always.  I  suppose  every  man  plays  around  with  girls; 
they  are  all  alike  to  him  until  he  comes  to  the  right  one  — 
the  one  that  is  meant  to  be  his  mate  and  then  —  then  she's 
got  to  let  him  know  it.  Men !  Why,  they're  all  alike  — 
just  big  stupid  boys.  Every  man  needs  a  woman  to  take 
care  of  him. )  And  I've  found  my  man ! 

MINNIE  (she  takes  Sally's  hand).  I'm  not  really  such  a  bad 
sort,  Sally.  I've  seen  a  lot  more  than  you  have,  that's  all. 
Why,  you're  only  a  kid.  I'm  not  going  to  let  you  go 
through  what  I  have.  After  all,  it  ain't  worth  the  candle. 
Perhaps  there  is  something  in  dreams.  —  I  wish  I  could 
believe  so.^> 

SALLY.     I  know  there  is! 

MINNIE.  That's  the  reason  I'm  going  to  stay  home  with 
you  to-night.  I  want  you  to  go  on  believing  in  dreams. 
(With  a  sigh  of  resignation  she  sits  down.  After  a  long 
pause)  They  was  going  to  have  a  real  jazz  band.  (Another 
long  pause)  I  wonder  if  the  drummer  from  St.  Louis  is 
still  waiting  for  me !  v/ 

SALLY  (she  walks  over  and  puts  her  hand  on  Minnie's  shoulder). 
I  don't  want  you  to  stay  here  with  me  to-night.  I  want 
to  be  alone  —  all  alone  when  he  comes  for  me.  He's  not 


26  COLUMBINE 


at  all  what  you  think  he  is.  Oh,  I've  had  men  try  to  flirt 
with  me  and  try  to  talk  to  me  and  all  that.  I  know  that 
kind.  But  a  woman  can  always  tell  a  good  man  from  a 
bad  one. 

MINNIE.  I  wonder?  I  think  only  a  very  bad  woman  can 
tell  a  good  man  from  a  bad  one.  (Pause)  Sally,  don't 
you  know  what  a  woman  is  what  goes  away  and  lives  with 
a  man  —  without  being  married  to  him? 

SALLY  (backing  away).  Oh!  You  didn't  think  that  of  me! 
You  couldn't  think  that! 

MINNIE.     What  else  could  I  think?; 

SALLY.     But  we  are  going  to  be  married,  like  anybody  else. 

MINNIE.     Who  suggested  that? 

SALLY.  Why,  Harlequin,  of  course.  We're  to  be  just  Harle 
quin  and  Columbine  forever  —  so  please  go  away  and  let 
me  be  alone  when  he  comes.  You  shan't  spoil  it !  Nobody 
shall. 

MINNIE  (with  a  shrug  of  her  shoulders).  Of  course —  (She 
rises)  Oh,  well,  if  you  want  to  be  alone.  But  he  won't 
come  for  you  —  hell,  he  won't  come.  (She  puts  on  her 
hat)  You'll  just  sit  here  waiting  and  waiting,  until  you're 
all  tired  out,  and  then  you'll  go  to  bed  and  cry  till  your 
poor  little  heart  is  broke.  I  waited  for  a  fellow  once! 
You  see  I'm  still  waiting! 

SALLY.     You  mean  you  — 

MINNIE.  Yes.  We  were  going  to  live  in  a  flat  and  have  a 
baby  grand  piano,  and  a  imitation  palm  with  red  tissue 
paper  around  the  pot  and  all  that.  I  never  saw  him  again. 
[She  laughs  as  she  walks  toward  the  door. 

SALLY.     But  Harlequin  will  come. 

MINNIE.  Maybe.  But  not  to  take  you  to  a  little  red  house 
with  hollyhocks!  He'll  want  to  postpone  that  until  next 

ik.     Wait  and  see. 
]he  starts  to  go. 

SALLY  (running  to  her).    Good-by,  Minnie. 

MINNIE.  Naw,  not  good-by  —  just  so  long.  So  long,  Sally, 
poor  little  kid.  (She  turns  at  the  door)  Say,  if  you  don't 


COLUMBINE  27 


mind,  stay  on  your  own  side  and  weep.  I  hate  sleeping  on 
a  damp  pillow! 

[Sally  closes  the  door  softly  after  her  and  walks  toward  the 
table.  The  moon  begins  to  peep  in  at  the  back  window.  The 
room  grows  brighter.  Sally  picks  up  the  rose  from  the  table 
and  kisses  it;  she  moves  toward  the  window  where  she  stands 
waiting  as  the  moon  slowly  rises.  After  a  long  pause  Sally, 
with  a  little  catch  in  her  throat,  walks  toward  the  center  of  the 
room.  Slowly  she  pulls  the  petals  from  the  rose  and  lets  them 
fall  through  her  fingers  one  by  one.  The  lamp  suddenly 
flickers  and  goes  out.  A  voice,  distant  at  first  but  coming 
nearer  and  nearer,  is  heard: 

I  will  give  you  the  keys  of  my  heart, 

We  shall  be  married  until  death  do  us  part, 

Lady,  will  you  walk, 

Lady,  will  you  talk, 

Lady,  will  you  walk  and  talk  with  me? 
[Some  one  is  running  up   the  stairs  outside.     Sally  turns 
toward  the  door  which  flies  open  as  the  curtain  falls. 


THE  LOST  PLEIAD 

JANE  DRANSFIELD 

JANE  DRANSFIELD  was  born  in  Rochester,  New  York,  and 
was  educated  in  the  city  schools.  She  later  attended  Vassar 
College  for  two  and  one  half  years.  Miss  Dransfield  is  a 
contributor  to  many  magazines  and  lectures  on  dramatic 
criticism  at  Columbia  University. 

Her  plays  are  "The  Romance  of  Melrose  Hall"  (Ms.), 
"The  Lost  Pleiad",  and  the  following  one-act  plays:  "The 
White  Window",  "Joe,  a  Hudson  Valley  Play",  "The 
Baroness",  "Two  Women". 


THE  LOST  PLEIAD 

A  FANTASY  IN   TWO  ACTS 


BY  JANE  DRANSFIELD 


COPYRIGHT,  1918,  BY  JAMBS  T.  WHITE  AND  COMPANY. 

COPYBIQHT,   1922,    BY  JANE   DBAN8FIELD  STONE, 

All  righfs  reserved. 

No  performance  of  this  play,  either  amateur  or  professional,  may  be  given  without  special 
arrangement  with  Miss  Jane  Dransfield,  Sunnyseat,  Crugers-on-Hudsou,  N.  Y. 


FOREWORD 

THE  suggestion  for  this  fantasy  lay  in  the  Greek  myth  of 
the  Pleiad,  who  came  to  earth  to  marry  a  mortal.  The 
Pleiades  were  the  seven  beautiful  daughters  of  Atlas  and  the 
ocean  nymph  Pleione.  By  command  of  Zeus  they  became 
a  constellation,  shining  by  night  as  stars;  but  by  day,  in  the 
form  of  doves,  they  winged  their  way  to  the  far  Hesperides 
to  fetch  ambrosia  for  the  Olympian  King.  All  were  content 
with  their  fate  except  Merope,  the  youngest,  who,  having 
fallen  in  love  with  Sisyphus,  founder  and  first  King  of 
Corinth,  slipped  down  to  earth  to  become  the  bride  of  the 
mortal  cf  her  choice.  For  this  act  she  was  forbidden  to  re 
sume  her  heavenly  station.  Compensation  was  hers  how 
ever,  since  it  was  her  grandson,  Bellerophon,  who,  beside  the 
magic  spring  Peirene,  captured  Pegasus,  the  winged  horse 
of  the  Muses,  thereby  securing  forever  for  mortals  the  service 
of  poetry. 

This  classical  story  has  been  used  in  the  present  play 
neither  with  desire,  nor  attempt,  to  produce,  either  in  form, 
or  in  feeling,  a  Greek  drama.  Pleasure,  outbreaking  the 
beautiful  spirit  of  the  myth,  has  been  the  only  aim. 

JANE  DRANSFIELD. 


The  first  performance  of  "The  Lost  Pleiad"  was  given  in 
the  Academy  of  Music,  Brooklyn,  New  York,  December  28, 
1910. 

Characters 

SISYPHUS,  King  of  Corinth 

TOLMID,  who  plots  to  be  king 

LEONTES,  friend  to  SISYPHUS 

MERCURY,  messenger  of  heaven 

ISIDORE,  a  toy  vender 

AN  OLD  FISHERMAN 

BION,  the  fisherman's  son 

MASTER  WORKMAN 

FIRST  WORKMAN 

SECOND  WORKMAN 

MEROPE,  the  Pleiad 

DIAN,  the  huntress 

PLEIONE,  mother  of  the  Pleiades 

IRIS,  messenger  of  dreams 

HERSE,  sister  to  BION 

PROTO,      1 

THETIS,     1  Nereids 

GALENE,   J 

Tree-nymphs,  Fauns,  Nereids,  the  Pleiades,  Sun  Maidens 

SCENE:  A  wooded  seashore  near  Corinth.     A  spring  night. 


THE  LOST  PLEIAD 
PROLOGUE 

(Spoken  before  the  Curtain) 

All  gentle  hearers,  humbly  we  entreat 
Your  courtesy  for  this,  our  Fancy's  play; 
That  it  is  writ  in  rhythmic  lines,  forgive, 
If  rhyming  be  not  to  your  taste,  since  what 
Is  born  poetic  must  its  essence  show, 
No  other  form  could  clothe  so  airy  frame. 
And  if,  perchance,  you  quarrel  with  the  theme, 
That  it  harks  back  to  ancient  things  forgot, 
Old  myths  outgrown,  remember,  then,  that  art, 
Presenting  truth,  no  present  knows,  nor  past. 

Remember,  too,  if  still  inclined  to  chide, 

That  poets  haply  wait  on  circumstance; 

Their  themes  chose  them,  not  they  their  themes,  ofttimes; 

For  with  their  minds  at  leisure,  roaming  free, 

Browsing  the  hills  of  romance,  vales  of  song, 

Or  wandering  through  the  woods  of  legendry, 

Sudden  a  figure  starts  from  those  dim  realms, 

And,  why  he  knows  not,  bids  the  poet  "Write!" 

For  poets  are  but  instruments  through  which 

Strange  voices  from  far  worlds  articulate. 

Within  the  slow  procession  of  the  stars, 

Which  nightly  moves 'in  majesty  through  heaven, 

In  Taurus  shine  the  wistful  Pleiades,  — 

That  group  whose  rising  here  marks  winter's  reign, 

But  which  in  Argolis  bespeak  the  spring, 

Bidding  the  farmer  hopeful  sow  his  grain, 

The  mariner  put  forth  his  boats  to  sea; 


36  THE  LOST  PLEIAD 

Six  sisters,  you  may  count  them  with  the  eye, 
But  there's  a  story  they  were  seven  once, 
Ere  that  the  youngest  member  of  the  group, 
The  gentle  Merope,  slipped  down  to  earth, 
Obedient  to  the  dictum  of  her  heart, 
As  often  maids,  against  all  elder  rule, 
And  for  forbidden  love,  high  heaven  lost. 
Yet  so  without  regret,  since  this  is  truth,  — 
That  earth  from  heaven  is  no  different, 
If  one  doth  harbor  heaven  in  the  thought. 
This,  then,  is  simple  matter  of  our  tale;  — 
How  Merope,  the  Pleiad,  Dian's  maid, 
Forsook  her  sisters  on  a  summer  night, 
And  swiftly  down  the  azure  hill  of  heaven, 
Sped  unto  earth  to  marry  Sisyphus, 
First  king  of  Corinth,  in  fair  Argolis; 
How  Sisyphus  had  vision  of  her  grace 
In  god-sent  dream,  which  he  in  steadfast  faith 
Believed,  and  let  the  vision  rule  his  deed; 
How  Dian,  in  whose  train  ran  Merope, 
With  hair  unbound,  all  ardent  to  the  chase, 
Besought  her,  though  in  vain,  to  heaven  return; 
And  how  her  sisters,  lonesome  as  the  heart 
Which  finds  not  in  a  throng  the  one  face  loved . 
Found  heaven  a  solitude,  once  she  had  fled. 

So  on  your  kindness  let  our  play  begin, 
And  if  thereby  you  shall  be  entertained, 
Finding  some  pleasant  things,  or  wise,  herein, 
We  who  have  striven,  have  our  end  attained. 

ACT  ONE 

The  scene  represents  a  wooded  seashore.  Massive  rocks  to 
the  sides,  with  an  open  grassy  glade  to  the  front,  and  a  pool  at 
the  base  of  a  rock.  There  are  entrances  to  left,  and  right.  In 
the  far  distance  Mt.  Helicon  is  visible.  It  is  sunset.  Enter 
Iris. 


THE  LOST  PLEIAD  37 

IRIS.     There  went  a  voice  through  heaven,  plaintive,  low, 

Yet  heard  to  farthest  limits,  "She  is  lost! 

Our  little  sister  Merope  is  lost." 

It  swept  along  like  south  wind  through  the  trees 

All  wet  with  tears,  or  note  of  instrument 

Responding  to  a  heart's  complaining  tone. 

Acteon  heard,  and  let  the  wild  stag  go 

To  listen.     Ceres  stopped  her  golden  scythe; 

Apollo's  lute  sighed  soft  in  unison, 

While  Daphne  caught  the  quiver  in  her  leaves. 

By  every  god  and  goddess,  then,  it  passed, 

Till  Echo  took  the  sound  in  her  thin  hands, 

And  carried  it  aloft  to  where  Zeus  sat, 

On  magisterial  throne,  studded  with  stars. 

There  standing  near,  I,  Iris,  heard  the  news, 

And  swift  sped  down  to  summon  Sisyphus 

To  meet  his  bride,  new  disappeared  from  heaven. 

Here  on  this  spot  where  first  he  dreamed  of  her, 

Swift  destiny  shall  lead  them  soon  to  meet. 

Who  comes? 

[Enter  Hermes,  cloaked. 
HERMES  (uncloaks).     I  come. 
IRIS.     'Tis  Hermes,  Maia's  son. 
HERMES.     But  one  brief  moment  since,  and  I,  aloft, 

Stood  near  the  circle  of  the  Pleiades. 

With  trembling  lips,  and  tender,  they  told  me 

Of  Merope,  their  sister,  whom  they  love, 

How  she  had  fled  from  them,  they  deem  to  earth. 

They  bid  me  come  ere  that  the  mischief's  done, 

And  married  to  a  mortal,  she  lose  heaven. 
IRIS.     Why  came  not  they  themselves? 
HERMES.     The  Pleiades 

In  Taurus  must  remain  until  the  dawn; 

Then,  in  the  form  of  milk-white  doves  released, 

They  fly  to  far  Hesperides  to  fetch 

Ambrosia  to  the  Olympian  king.     The  dawn 

They  fear  will  be  too  late. 


38  THE  LOST  PLEIAD 

IRIS.     Tis  now  too  late. 

HERMES.    As  earth  checks  time,  scarce  'tis  an  hour  ago 

That  Merope  left  heaven. 
IRIS.     Yet  'tis  too  late. 

Time  with  the  bond  of  love  has  naught  to  do. 
HERMES.     Love,  fickle,  may  be  changed  before  'tis  law. 
IRIS.     Love 's  law  itself,  if  it  be  truly  love. 
HERMES.     I  know  you,  Iris,  and  the  spell  you  cast 

On  men  by  reason  of  the  dreams  you  send. 

Yet  even  you  act  not  without  command. 

Who  sent  you  to  arrange,  or  to  suggest 

Such  undesired  marriage? 
IRIS.     Pleione. 
HERMES.    Now  will  the  sisters  doubly  mourn  that  she, 

Their  mother,  has  played  false. 
IRIS.     Not  false !     Most  true ! 

For  Merope,  wed  on  the  earth  shall  win 

A  greater  fame  than  had  she  stayed  in  heaven. 

Farewell!  sweet  Hermes.    You  and  I,  though  fleet, 

Have  much  to  do,  ere  we  again  shall  meet. 

[Exit  Iris. 
HERMES.     The  Pleiades  shall  learn  this  latest  move. 

Against  Pleione  shall  they  pit  Dian. 

Persuasion  often  wins,  where  fails  command. 

Yet  ere  I  go,  I  would  learn  certain  news 

Of  Merope,  that  she  is  here,  or  no, 

And  so  speed  Dian  without  loss  of  time. 

Some  one  about,  for  gods  need  men,  as  men 

Need  gods,  perchance  can  give  me  news  of  her. 

(Looks  out  on  the  right.) 

Ah !  to  my  wish,  a  peasant  comes.     'Tis  good ! 

I'll  question  him,  pretending  I'm  from  court. 

(Enter  the  old  fisherman.     Hermes  draws  his  cloak  about  him 

closely,  and  retires  rear.     The  fisherman  seats  himself  upon 

the  rocks,  and  throws  in  his  line.     Hermes  approaches  him, 

imperiously) 

Stranger,  be  off!    Go!  get  you  home  at  once. 


THE  LOST  PLEIAD 


FISHERMAN  (unabashed).     I  would  like  nothing  better,  sir. 

What  news? 
HERMES.     This  place  is  spot  predestined,  where  to-night 

The  king  of  Corinth  comes  to  meet  his  bride, 

The  youngest  of  the  seven  Pleiades. 
FISHERMAN.     I  know  not  any  neighbor  Pleiades. 
HERMES.     The  Pleiades,  my  friend,  are  stars  in  heaven. 
FISHERMAN.     A  woman,  or  a  star,  'tis  all  the  same. 

To  wed  is  to  be  caught  within  a  net. 

And  so  our  young  king  is  to  marry? 
HERMES.     Yes. 
FISHERMAN.     Not  even  kings  escape  love's  malady. 

Well,  I  can't  go,  till  I  have  caught  a  fish. 
HERMES.     You  should  not  labor  when  the  sun  is  set. 

That  is  but  great  ambition's  need. 
FISHERMAN.     'Tis  plain 

You,  sir,  are  young. 
HERMES.    Not  old! 
FISHERMAN.     Unmarried,  too. 

HERMES.     How  can  that  matter,  even  grant  it  true? 
FISHERMAN.     No    matter,    save    it    mars   your   judgment, 
friend. 

If  you  were  married,  and  not  quite  so  young, 

You'd  know  ambition's  not  the  only  spur 

To  set  a  man  to  work.     His  wife,  — 
HERMES  (impatient).     My  friend,  — 
FISHERMAN.     An  hour  ago  there  knocked  upon  our  door 

A  pretty  maid  — 
HERMES  (interested).     Indeed! 
FISHERMAN.     Sir,  you  mistake. 

I  am  beyond  the  age  of  escapades. 
HERMES.     You  interrupt  yourself.     "A  pretty  maid"  — 

I  am  impatient  for  your  story,  friend. 
FISHERMAN.     Well,  being  young,  and  it  near  night,  and  she 

Alone,  my  wife  and  children  bid  her  in; 

One  way  or  other,  she  impressed  them  so, 

My  wife  was  shamed  to  offer  her  our  food, 


40  THE  LOST  PLEIAD 

So  bid  me  out  to  fetch  a  fish  for  supper, 

As  if  she  needed  better  food  than  we. 

I'm  like  to  sit  here,  sir,  from  now  till  dawn. 

That's  all  the  women  know  of  fishing  art. 
HERMES  (with  greater  interest}.    Whence  came  the  stranger? 
FISHERMAN.     That  I  know  not,  sir. 

She  gave  us  no  account.     She  said  her  name 

Was  Merope.     That's  all  I  know,  my  friend. 
HERMES  (turns).     She's  close  about,  somewhere.     (Returns 

to  the  fisherman)     Have  patience,  sir, 

And  keep  on  fishing. 
FISHERMAN.     That  I'm  like  to  do. 
HERMES  (shows  the  wings  on  his  cap). 

Look,  there !     Be  careful,  now.     You  have  a  bite. 
FISHERMAN  (astonished).     Why,  so  I  have. 
HERMES  (shows  his  winged  heels).     Another,  now! 
FISHERMAN  (excited).     Hark  ye! 

Loud  talking's  bad,  though  fishes  have  no  ears. 
HERMES  (strikes  the  fisherman's  pole  with  his  caduceus). 

There !     Look,  you  now,  a  fish ! 
FISHERMAN  (draws  in  a  large  fish}.     I've  landed  him. 
HERMES  (as  a  god}. 

Hermes  rewards  you,  friend,  for  service  given. 
FISHERMAN  (recognizes  the  god}. 

Thou  art  a  god !     (Kneels} 

I  bend  my  aged  knees. 

Do  me  no  harm.     I  swear  that  I  fear  thee. 
HERMES  (raises  the  fisherman  to  his  feet}. 

If  men  but  knew  how  close  divinity 

Doth  walk  to  them  in  forms  unrecognized, 

They  would  have  less  of  fear,  and  more  of  power. 

You  have  no  cause  to  fear.     Arise,  my  friend ! 

'Tis  meant  for  man  to  walk  erect  on  earth. 
FISHERMAN  (rises}. 

Oh,  take  from  me  my  bitter  sting  of  years. 
HERMES.     Years  have  no  sting  unless  ill  spent.     Go,  now! 

By  reason  of  this  fish,  persuade  your  wife 


THE  LOST  PLEIAD  41 

You're  still  the  family's  head.     Tell  Merope 

That  Hermes  sends  Diana  here.     Farewell! 

[Exit  Hermes. 
FISHERMAN  (stands  a  moment  in  astonishment  too  great  for 

words,  recovers,  examines  himself  curiously). 

Well,  well !     Still  I'm  myself  for  all  of  this; 

Sound  head,  sound  legs,  the  selfsame  hands,  and  feet, 

As  though  I'd  not  been  talking  to  a  god. 

What's  more,  I've  landed  now  a  three-pound  fish, 

And  I'll  be  off  with  it,  before  night  comes. 

(Looks  out  left,  hastily  takes  up  the  fish) 

There's  two  men  coming  down  the  woodsy  path,  — 

Two  well  appearing  men,  —  that  is,  they  look 

Like  men,  but  may  be  Zeus  and  Hercules, 

For  all  I  know.     I'll  not  be  sure  of  men, 

Or  gods,  hereafter.     Let  me  go  before 

My  writs  forget  that  I  be  I.     One  god 

May  give  a  fish,  another  take  it  back. 

[Conceals  the  fish  under  his  jacket,  exists  hastily.    Enter, 

left,  Sisyphus  and  Leontes,  cloaked. 
SISYPHUS.     No  more,  Leontes.     No  more  warnings,  now, 

Nor  fears,  nor  doubts,  nor  any  tiresome  things. 

No,  I'll  not  list'en.     Come !  you  are  my  friend, 

And  friends  should  catch  the  mood  of  those  they  love. 
LEONTES.     I  am  your  friend,  and  subject,  so  obey. 

I'll  say  no  more,  my  king,  at  least,  not  now. 
SISYPHUS.    This  is  the  place  of  dreams;  the  slumbering  sea, 

The  woods  to  left  and  right,  and  these  dark  rocks 

Which  over  Corinth  stand  like  Titan  guard, 

Shooting  by  day  the  sun's  bright  arrows  back, 

But  feeding  night  with  silence.     Yea,  the  place 

Of  dreams !     Here,  by  this  unstirred  magic  pool, 

Whose  source  unseen  was  struck  at  my  command 

By  Aesopus  from  barren  rock,  I  lay 

And  dreamed  of  Merope. 
LEONTES.     The  Pleiad!     Well, 

Some  dreams  come  true,  they  say. 


42  THE  LOST  PLEIAD 

SISYPHUS  (lays  his  hand  on  Leontes*  shoulder).    Incredulous, 

still. 

Yet  such  distrust  is  kinder  than  some  faith, 
Wfruiiiig  more  confidence.  Upon  this  spot 
Came  first  light  touch  of  Merope's  fleet  feet. 

LEONTES  (affects  belief).    You  saw  her  fall  to  earth,  my  lord? 

SISYPHUS.     Not  fall;  — 

No  lawless  passenger  through  frightened  space, 

No  outcast  hurled  from  high  Olympian  throne, 

As  Ate  was,  dark  daughter  of  discord : 

But  through  the  clouds  descending  on  safe  way, 

Swift  as  a  meteor  whose  silent  trail 

Makes  night  mysterious.     Here,  then,  she  came, 

Slender  and  fair  as  some  young  poplar  tree, 

Whose  new  leaves  shimmer  to  an  April  moon. 

But,  ah !  the  star  upon  her  forehead  went. 

LEONTES.     If  such  sweet  visions  fed  my  dreaming  eyes, 
I'd  ever  choose  to  sleep. 

SISYPHUS.     I  say  I  dreamed. 

It  was,  however,  no  fancy  of  the  night, 

No  bright  impossible  figment  of  the  mind, 

No  common  sleep;  —  but  as  through  open  door, 

I  seemed  to  look  into  another  world, 

And  what  I  saw  I  knew  I  must  believe.    (With  a  change) 

But  I  for  other  purpose  brought  you  here 

Than  to  describe  what  soon  will  be  a  deed. 

This  is  the  spot  where  you,  my  friend,  must  lead 

A  merry  festival  to-morrow.     Here 

Let  young  and  old  join  me  in  happiness. 

LEONTES.     You  have  more  faith  than  I  thought  possible, 
So  to  believe  and  act  upon  a  dream. 
I  could  not  so,  though  I  might  willing  be, 
By  dreams  to  be  so  sweetly  entertained; 
In  dreams  upon  my  spirit  to  take  flight 
From  this  dull  world,  and  soaring,  wing  light  way, 
More  swift  than  is  the  slender  swallow's  flight, 
Above  strange  seas,  through  groves  of  spice  and  balm, 


THE  LOST  PLEIAD  43 

By  rivers  clear,  and  lake's  pellucid  stream; 

In  dreams  to  shake  the  cares  that  cloak  the  day, 

And  find  for  fretted  mind  divertisement 

Mid  scenes  of  childhood,  all  too  near  forgot, 

Or  early  friendships  pleasantly  renew; 

To  see  in  dreams  not  only  things  we  know, 

But  Lethe  dipped  to  things  that  are,  to  go 

Like  bold  discoverer  into  new  realms, 

Our  souls  like  Ariel  speeding  through  the  night, 

Whilst  our  dull  bodies  lie  at  home  in  bed. 

I  would  I  knew  this  entertaining  art. 
SISYPHUS.     Your  raillery,  Leontes,  has  no  sting; 

Beneath  it  lies  a  true  and  loyal  heart. 

If  we  would  prove,  we  must  believe  our  visions; 

Believing  them,  we  then  must  act  them  out. 

You  see  the  place.     Make  pleasure  business, 

In  honor  of  my  bride. 
LEONTES.     My  lord,  I  will. 

The  peasantry  shall  long  recall  the  day. 
SISYPHUS  (leads  Leontes  left).    Now  all  the  earth  to  drowsy 
quietude  sinks; 

Soft  silence  reigns.     Let  us  return,  dear  friend. 

There's  naught  to  do  here,  yet.     My  dream  did  read 

That  not  till  dawn  would  I  meet  Merope. 

At  dawn  I  will  return  alone. 
LEONTES.     Alone? 

Now  let  me  speak  as  friend,  as  subject,  too. 

This  dream,  and  your  attendant  actions  strange, 

Afford,  my  lord,  an  opportunity 

Long  sought  by  Tolmid.     Here  you  say  you  come 

Alone  at  dawn.     You  must  have  known,  ere  this, 

How  jealous  Tolmid  's  of  you,  how  he  seeks 

To  be  acclaimed  as  king  next  in  your  stead. 
SISYPHUS  (stops,  astonished).     No,  I've  not  heard  this  news. 

What,  is  it  true? 

'Tis  unbelievable.     Tolmid  and  I 

Were  boys  together. 


44  THE  LOST  PLEIAD 

LEONTES.     There's  the  rankling  cause. 

You  were  not  born  a  king,  he  says,  no  more 

Than  he.     Fortune  has  favored  you. 
SISYPHUS.     I  grant 

I  was  not  born  a  king,  who  now  am  king, 

Yet  from  a  boy  I  knew  my  destiny. 

Deep  in  my  heart  burned  consciousness  of  power, 

Resistless  flame  that  feeds,  and  yet  consumes  — 

A  cruel  goad,  and  yet,  a  solacer. 

To  be  a  king  it  is  to  act  a  king, 

To  prove  in  thought  and  deed  true  majesty. 

Yet  so  'tis  ever  said.     Whoso  succeeds 

It  is  called  luck.     There's  no  such  thing  as  luck. 

Our  fates  upon  our  own  decisions  wait, 

And  our  decisions  on  a  consciousness 

Which  we  can  not  explain,  yet  must  obey. 

I  have  no  fear  of  Tolmid. 
LEONTES.     Yet  to-night 

He  seeks  your  life.     And  his  excuse  is  this,  — 

You  are  no  longer  fit  to  rule  as  king, 

Since  swayed  by  fantasies.     Therefore,  I  beg, 

If  come  you  must,  come  not  alone  at  dawn. 

Bring  trusty  friends  with  you. 
SISYPHUS.     One  friend,  —  no  more. 

To  ease  you,  I  consent  to  company. 

Will  you  return  with  me? 
LEONTES.     Gladly,  my  lord. 

[Exeunt  Sisyphus  and  Leontes,  left.    It  grows  darker.    Enter 
Bion  and  Herse,  right.     Herse  carries  a  small  basket. 

HERSE.  Do  you  think  we  shall  ever  find  her,  Bion?  Mother 
said  I  must  give  her  back  these  yellow  stones  she  left  on  the 
table. 

BION  (searches  about).  Of  course  we'll  find  her.  It  isn't  an 
hour  since  she  knocked  on  our  door,  and  mother  sent  father 
out  to  catch  a  fish.  She  can't  have  gone  very  far.  She 
may  be  asleep  hereabouts. 


I  THE  LOST  PLEIAD  45 

HERSE  (glances  about  apprehensively) .  The  woods  are  so  still. 
I  feel  afraid. 

BION.  That's  just  like  a  girl.  You  want  to  come  along,  but 
you  don't  want  to  stick  it  out.  Well,  go  home,  then, 
fraidy.  You  may  see  strange  sights,  after  sunset.  (Mys 
teriously)  They  tell  me,  though  with  what  truth  I  know 
not,  that  at  this  time  of  day,  and  it's  the  same  before 
dawn,  when  nature  stops  to  take  breath,  and  it's  neither 
night,  nor  day,  neither  light,  nor  dark,  that  then  the 
woods  do  not  belong  to  mortals,  not  to  boys  and  girls,  like 
us,  but  to  creatures  we  cannot  see,  — 

HERSE  (frightened).    Oh,  — 

BION.     Fauns,  tree  nymphs,  and  nereids! 

HERSE  (more  frightened) .    Oh,  dear,  — 

BION  (reassuringly).    Never  mind!    I'll  take  care  of  you. 

HERSE.  Bion,  do  you  suppose  Merope  was  one  of  those 
creatures?  She  didn't  look  like  us. 

BION.     Well,  what  if  she  was? 

HERSE.     Then  she'd  never  marry  you. 

BION.     Who  said  I  wanted  her  to  marry  me? 

HERSE.     Why,  when  she  came,  you  put  on  your  best  suit. 

BION  (shyly).    The  other  seemed  so  coarse. 

VOICE  OF  A  CHILD  (sings). 
Little  creatures  of  the  wood, 
Fauns  and  nymphs,  O, 
Spring  from  out  your  leafy  bowers, 
Cease  your  slumbers  midst  the  flowers; 
Now  'tis  neither  night,  nor  day, 
Fauns  and  nymphs,  O, 
Time  it  is  for  us  to  play, 
Nymphs  and  fauns,  O. 

HERSE  (clings  to  Bion).    What  is  that? 

BION.     Be  still.     Don't  move. 

(Bion  and  Herse  cling  together,  at  one  side,  in  the  shade  of  a 
rock.  Enter  a  troop  of  little  tree  nymphs  a?id  fauns.  They 
dance,  music  playing  softly  outside.  Then  a  toy  whistle  is 
heard,  which  imitates  a  bird.  The  nymphs  and  fauns  stop; 


46  THE  LOST  PLEIAD 

the  whistle  is  repeated,  they  run  off,  frightened.     Bion  drops 

Herse,  and  steps  forward.     Herse  follows) 

There,  didn't  I  tell  you?     When  'tis  neither  night,  nor  day. 

HERSE.     I'm  not  afraid  now.     They  are  no  bigger  than  I. 

BION.  Herse,  perhaps  they'd  help  us  find  Merope.  Come! 
[Starts  to  pull  Herse  out.  The  whistle  is  heard  again.  Herse 
stops. 

HERSE.     What  kind  of  a  bird  is  that? 

BION.     Hurry ! 

[Drags  Herse  to  the  exit  at  the  left.  They  run  into  Isidore, 
who  is  entering,  blowing  on  a  toy  whistle.  He  carries  a 
lighted  lantern,  and  over  his  shoulder  is  suspended  a  basket 
containing  terra-cotta  statuettes  and  colored  balls.  The  scene 
grows  lighter,  as  it  would  from  the  light  of  a  lantern. 

ISIDORE.  Stop,  now!  Not  so  fast!  What,  would  you 
knock  Isidore  down? 

HERSE.     Please  excuse  me. 

ISIDORE  (adjusts  his  wares).  No  harm  done.  The  populace 
assembles  already  for  the  king's  festival.  I'm  none  too 
early  with  my  wares.  The  first  at  the  jug  skims  the  cream. 
[Offers  his  wares. 

HERSE.     Oh,  what  pretty  balls! 

BION  (tries  to  draw  Herse  away).     We're  wasting  time. 

HERSE.     I  would  like  a  ball,  Bion,  or  a  doll. 

ISIDORE.  Buy  something,  young  sir?  It's  a  gentleman's 
privilege  to  satisfy  his  lady's  desires. 

BION.     I've  no  money. 

ISIDORE.     What?    No  money  to  spend  at  the  king's  wedding? 

BION  (tries  to  draw  Herse  away).  We  are  from  the  country, 
sir,  and  know  nothing  of  the  king's  wedding. 

ISIDORE.  Your  indifference  is  explained.  'Tis  the  wine  of 
enthusiasm  which  opens  the  purse  strings.  Curb  your 
haste,  and  by  the  aid  of  my  dolls,  which  the  little  lady 
admires,  I  will  tell  you  the  whole  pretty  story.  Time 
liness  is  the  spirit  of  trade. 

HERSE  (resisting  Bion).    Please,  Bion. 
[Examines  the  wares. 


THE  LOST  PLEIAD  47 

ISIDORE.  Now,  here  is  Atlas,  the  bride's  father,  a  care 
worn  man,  since  he  carries  the  weight  of  the  world.  Here 
you  see  Pleione,  her  mother,  and  all  the  ladies  of  the 
family.  We  must  not  be  ignorant  of  our  best  people. 
Here's  Maia,  the  eldest  daughter,  goddess  of  spring,  and 
mother  of  Hermes.  Here's  Electra,  Taygete,  Sterope,  Al 
cyone,  Celaeno,  and  last  and  best,  Merope,  the  bride 
herself. 

BION.     Merope ! 

HERSE.     Merope ! 

ISIDORE  (offers  the  statuette  to  Bion).  The  king's  bride!  A 
bargain. 

BION  (awed) .  The  king's  bride !  Herse,  we'd  better  go  home. 
[Bion  tries  again  to  draw  Herse  away  from  the  dolls,  fails, 
runs  out  alone. 

ISIDORE  (aside).     I  scent  news.     I'll  draw  it  forth. 

(Tosses  a  ball  into  the  air,  then  a  second,  and  a  third;  keeps 

the  three  balls  going) 

Little  lady,  watch  the  balls!     Now  this  one,  now  that, 

now  this.     Quite  a  trick,  eh?    Ah!     One  falls,  another, 

and  the  third.     'Tis  the  darkness. 

[Herse  searches  for  the  balls.     Finds  one. 

HERSE.     Here's  one. 

ISIDORE.  Never  mind.  Come  to-morrow,  and  find  them. 
Little  lady,  I  have  told  you  about  my  Merope.  Tell  me 
about  yours. 

HERSE.  Why,  Merope  came  to  our  house  about  an  hour  ago, 
while  we  were  just  sitting  down  to  supper.  Then,  while 
we  were  waiting  for  my  father  to  bring  back  the  fish, 
suddenly  she  saw  some  one  she  knew,,  though  we  saw  no 
one  at  all,  and  crying  out  "Iris",  or  something  like  that, 
she  went  away.  We've  been  looking  for  her.  She  left 
these  yellow  stones  on  the  table. 
[Holds  out  her  basket. 

ISIDORE  (examines  the  stones.  Conceals  his  delight).  Worth 
less  stones!  However,  I  will  make  a  bargain  with  you. 
You  give  me  the  pebbles.  I'll  give  you  the  doll  Merope. 


48  THE  LOST  PLEIAD 

[Holds  out  the  statuette  to  Herse,  who  takes  it  with  pleasure. 

HERSE.     Oh,  thank  you.     Only  it  doesn't  look  like  Merope. 

ISIDORE.  An  ideal  likeness,  my  dear,  a  figment  of  the  artist's 
imagination.  Most  ladies  prefer  such.  Good  night. 

HERSE.     Good  night,  and  thank  you  again. 
[Exit  Herse. 

ISIDORE  (counts  the  nuggets).  So  the  king's  dream  is  like  to 
come  true.  Upon  this  mundane  sphere  Merope  has  set 
foot.  An  item  of  information  worth  its  weight  in  gold.  I 
can  serve  thereby  the  love-sick  king,  or  the  jealous  Tolmid. 
Like  an  editor,  I  can  argue  with  equal  skill  on  either  side. 
He  that  is  shrewdest  closes  the  best  bargain.  (Slips  the 
nuggets  into  a  pocket  beneath  his  cloak)  And  to  all  appear 
ances  I  was  wasting  breath.  One  can  never  tell  when 
good  luck's  about  to  fall.  Impatience  is  the  sting  of  little 
minds.  Therefore  I  won  the  nuggets.  Now,  for  a  wink 
of  cat's  sleep,  one  eye  open.  (Lies  down)  Isidore,  thou 
dealer  in  gods  and  goddesses,  wilt  thou  say  prayers?  Nay, 
except  as  wares,  I  have  no  use  for  gods.  They  sit  and 
laugh  in  heaven,  while  we,  poor  devils,  toil  and  die.  Why 
worship  them,  and  beg  with  servile  spirit  the  good  that 
should  be  ours  unasked?  The  gods  never  gave  me  a  night's 
lodging.  The  sky's  my  roof,  the  wind's  my  broom,  the 
rain's  my  pail,  nature's  my  housekeeper.  (Yawns)  Come, 
sleep!  thou  silent  well  of  uncreated  thought.  In  thee  I 
sink  myself,  unfathomed  friend.  But  first,  let  me  put  out 
my  light.  I  am  economical. 

[Isidore  puts  out  his  lantern.  The  scene  is  darkened.  He 
settles  himself  for  sleep.  The  moon  rises.  Upon  the  rocks 
in  the  rear  appear  the  Nereids,  disporting  themselves  joyously. 

PROTO.     Like  foam  upon  the  water  swift  we  glide; 
Upon  the  tide 
We  drift  to  shore, 
Then  out  again  to  moor  beneath  the  moon. 

THETIS.     There  sporting  round  a  rock  we  dive  for  pearls, 
While  swiftly  whirls 
The  water  round  our  ears, 


THE  LOST  PLEIAD  49 

Ere  there  appears 

The  mermaid's  room, 

The  chambers  where  they  comb  their  long  wet  hair; 

And  where  they  wear 

I      Green  gowns,  whose  sheen 
Is  dimly  seen, 
As  soft  they  play 

Sad  tunes  upon  an  instrument  of  bone. 
GALENE.     No  bound  we  own, 

But  free  as  wind, 

New  paths  we  find, 

By  night,  or  day, 

Across  the  seas,  to  south,  to  east,  to  west; 

In  gay  unrest, 

Like  morning  light, 

That  glances  bright 

Upon  the  waves, 

Or  thoughts  of  poets  as  they  idly  muse. 
PROTO.     Or  if  we  choose, 

We  sink  below 

The  undertow, 

To  the  still  caves, 

Grotesquely  carved  from  rocks  on  ocean's  floor; 

There  to  explore 

The  rooms  and  aisles, 

Or  swift,  meanwhiles, 

A  banquet  call 

On  coral  table  set  with  cups  of  shell. 
ALL.     Then  in  cool  dell, 

Softly  we  slumber, 

Fifty  in  number, 

Nereids  all. 

[The  Nereids  come  over  the  rocks  upon  the  glade.     Thetis  dis 
covers  Isidore,  who  pretends  sleep. 
THETIS.     Oh!    Proto,  look! 
PROTO.     A  man! 

[They  examine  Isidore  curiously. 


50  THE  LOST  PLEIAD 

GALENE.     It  may  be  Phoebus  playing  he's  a  man, 

Wearing  disguise  for  love  of  idle  tricks. 

Those  hyacinthine  curls,  those  limbs  divine, 

Where  tireless  strength  is  married  to  fair  form, 

Often  assume  less  god-like  shape  than  this. 
PROTO.     No,  no!    The  sleep  that  sits  upon  these  lids 

Is  not  the  sleep  of  gods. 
THETIS  (discovers  the  basket  of  toys).     Why,  what  are  these? 

Some  balls!     Catch,  Nereids,  catch! 

[The  Nereids  play  ball. 
GALENE  (empties  the  basket  of  balls,  and  then  of  the  statuettes} . 

Such  tiny  men. 

PROTO.     They  have  form,  but  not  breath. 
GALENE.     A  lucky  find. 

[Throws  the  empty  basket  down.     It  hits  Isidore,  who  waits 

until  the  Nereids  are  at  play  again,  then  pushes  the  basket 

aside,  and  watches  the  Nereids  with  a  wry  face. 
ISIDORE  (aside) .     Lucky  for  them,  but  as  for  Isidore,  — 

[The  Nereids  exclaim  with  delight  over  the  toys. 
A  NEREID.    Mine's  best. 
ANOTHER.    No,  —  mine. 
ANOTHER.    No,  —  mine. 
ISIDORE.     Enchanting  thieves ! 

[A  voice  sings  outside.     It  is  Merope,  approaching. 
MEROPE'S  SONG 

Where  lilies  blow,  and  roses  grow, 

And  fragrant  zephyrs  die, 

Midst  daffodils  and  hyacinths, 

In  dalliance  dwell  I 

The  wanton  wind  I  often  bind, 

And  drive  it  as  my  steed; 

With  clouds  for  reins,  and  stars  for  spurs, 

Across  the  skies  I  speed. 

[The  Nereids  stop  play,  and  frightened,  retreat  rear  to  the 

rocks.     Enter  Merope,  singing  the  last  of  the  song.     She  bears 

wood  flowers  in  her  hands,  with  garlands  about  her  neck. 
PROTO.    A  mortal  comes !    Away! 


THE  LOST  PLEIAD  51 

GALENE.    Away ! 

[In  confusion  the  Nereids  disappear  over  the  rocks.     Merope 

pursues  them. 
MEROPE.     Proto !    Galene ! 

(One  or  two  Nereids  turn,  look  at  Merope,  do  not  recognize 

her,  all  disappear.     Merope  comes  forward,  puzzled,  and 

disappointed) 

Are  they  afraid  of  me?     Am  I  then  changed? 

Nay!    Rather  are  the  Nereids  at  fault. 

Their  eyes  see  naught  but  surface  form  of  things. 

I  am  no  different  than  when  I  kept 

My  place  among  the  Pleiades  in  heaven. 

(Looks  up  into  heaven) 

Ah!  heaven  doth  seem  doubly  fair  from  earth. 

(Caresses  the  flowers) 

Yet  sweet  is  earth.     The  woods,  bright  with  spring  flowers, 

Frail  bluets,  hairbells,  hypaticas,  and  cress, 

Bid  me  dear  welcome.     I  shall  not  regret, 

But  will  be  happy  in  this  new  sought  sphere. 

(Sees  the  reflection  of  the  stars  in  the  pool) 

The  stars !     Caught  here  as  fallen  from  heaven. 

Sweet  prisoners,  companion  me  on  earth. 

The  nymphs  shall  tangle  you  within  their  hair, 

Drawing  you  down  to  sport  beneath  the  waves, 

With  pearls  and  coral  red  enticing  you. 

(Isidore  watches  Merope  closely,  from  beneath  the  basket, 

which  lies  over  his  head.     He  pushes  it  aside,  about  to  rise, 

when  the  sound  of  a  hunting  horn  is  heard.     He  hides  again 

beneath  the  basket.     Merope  springs  up) 

I  know  the  sound.    'Tis  Dian's  silver  horn. 

She  seeks  me,  having  missed  me  from  her  maids. 

I  dread  her  loving  eloquence,  yet  stand 

Firm  on  my  own  decision. 

[Enter  Dian  with  hounds  in  leash. 
DIAN.     Merope ! 

My  little  maid.     (Embraces  Merope.     The  dogs  run  off) 

What  idle  trick  is  this? 


52  THE  LOST  PLEIAD 

This  dress,  this  spot,  what  does  it  mean?    Play  you 
A  tree  nymph,  new  released  from  aged  elm, 
Or  naiad  from  the  brook?     Tease  me  no  more 
By  absence,  but  return  with  me  to-night. 

MEROPE.     I  cannot,  Dian,  even  though  I  would. 

DIAN.     To-night  the  Pleiades  in  heaven  less  bright 
Than  wonted  shine. 

MEROPE.     One  more,  one  less,  naught  should 
Be  difference. 

DIAN.     Can  you  forget  your  birth,  — 

Your  heritage?     Your  golden  goblet  waits. 
Pour  out  the  wine  of  memory  and  quaff 
It  deep.     Without  you  heaven  is  forlorn. 
Your  sisters  mourn.     Remember  now  their  love; 
Let  pure  affection  in  your  heart  have  sway. 

MEROPE.     Unchanged  my  love  for  them,  Dian,  and  thee. 
How  heard  you  I  was  here  in  Argolis? 

DIAN.     As  sped  I  through  heaven's  winding  avenues, 
The  devious  pathways  wide  between  the  stars, 
Came  Hermes  to  me,  telling  you  were  here. 
My  little  one!    Dian  doth  plead  with  you. 
To  women  I  belong,  their  cause  I  serve; 
Not  in  their  several  states  as  sweethearts,  wives, 
Or  mothers,  but  as  women.     Ah !  I  would 
That  they  had  conscious  pride  that  they  were  women, 
And  loved  attainment  as  they  now  love  men. 

MEROPE.     Dian,  I'm  sorry  to  have  caused  you  grief. 

DIAN.     Beneath  a  clear  cold  moon  sat  Pleione, 
And  spun  for  you  this  web  of  human  fate. 
It  cannot  be  of  your  own  will  you  left 
The  star-sown  fields.     Your  mother  loves  the  earth. 
The  name  she  gave  you  —  Merope  —  proves  that. 

MEROPE.     My  mother  told  me  of  the  earth,  'tis  true. 
My  childish  ears  she  charmed  with  wondrous  tales 
Of  crisp  curled  waters  breaking  on  white  shores; 
Of  moss-grown  grottos,  lulled  by  purling  streams, 
In  whose  cool  depths  the  clear-eyed  fishes  sport; 


THE  LOST  PLEIAD  53 

Of  sounds  of  soft  winds  stirring  new-leaved  trees, 

At  whose  slim  base  the  pale  blue  violets  grow; 

She  told  me,  too,  of  men.     I  grant  this  true, 

Yet  came  I  down  of  my  own  will,  that  will 

Determined  by  necessity.     I  had 

To  come,  and  I  am  happiest  so,  Dian. 
DIAN.     Where  lay  necessity? 
MEROPE.     Within  my  heart. 
DIAN.     O  Echo !  carry  not  these  words  afar, 

But  bury  them  in  some  dim  cavern  deep! 

Can  it  be,  then,  that  you  who  followed  me, 

Are  caught  within  that  net  of  earthly  weave 

Which  men  call  love?     For  shame,  my  little  maid; 

Be  not  so  weak !    Take  pattern  by  Dian. 
MEROPE.     Your  heart  is  stern.     You  never  have  known 

love. 
DIAN.     Is  there  no  love  but  that  'twixt  man  and  maid? 

What,  then,  is  deep  desire  for  mankind's  good? 

Oh !  I  could  weep  when  I  look  down  on  men. 

They  sell  their  souls  for  evanescent  things; 

They  build  false  worlds,  in  which  they  suffer  pain; 

They  call  swift  passion  love,  and  foolish,  take 

Deceptive  seeming  for  the  truth  that  saves, 

And  then  expect  to  reap  reward.     No,  child! 

Become  not  one  of  them.     They  are  not  wise. 
MEROPE.     In  heaven  you  never  spoke  to  me  like  this. 
DIAN.     I  had  no  cause.     Now,  there  is  need  to  warn. 

Earth's  mystery  has  subtle,  siren  power; 

Love,  as  men  wish  it,  is  but  passion  wild, 

And  woman  is  the  plaything  of  the  race; 

Yet  doth  she  know  she  has  a  soul,  and  craves 

Some  recognition  of  herself  beyond 

The  lure  of  sex.     Diana's  state  is  best. 
MEROPE.     There  must  be  some  mistake.     This  can't  be  true. 
DIAN.     Experience  alone  to  many  minds 

Conviction  brings.     Whom  is  it  that  you  love? 
MEROPE.     His  name  is  Sisyphus. 


54  THE  LOST  PLEIAD 

DIAN.     Corinth's  great  king! 

How  came  you  to  this  choice? 
MEROPE.     One  night  I  looked 

From  heaven  to  earth,  and  there  did  lie  asleep 

Here  by  this  pool,  like  some  young  god,  the  king' 

And  he  did  dream  of  me. 
DIAN.    This  is  the  work 

Of  Iris,  wrought  by  dreams.     'Tis  ever  thus 

Her  rainbow  fingers  slip  to  deep  recess 

Within  the  mind,  attuning  some  fine  sense 

To  expectation  of  a  bliss  diving 

Yet  even  so,  Dian  will  not  despair. 

I  surely  have  some  power,  ari3  dare  to  say, 

Between  us  you  must  choose. 
MEROPE.     My  choice  is  made. 
DIAN.     You  wish  me  gone? 
MEROPE.     Confuse  not  my  desire. 

[Isidore,  from  under  his  basket,  chances  to  sneeze. 
DIAN  (alarmed).     Hush!    What  was  that? 
MEROPE  (puzzled).     I  do  not  know.     'Twas  strange. 
DIAN.     Some  mortal's  near.     Come,  ere  too  late,  away! 

Return,  sweet  bird,  to  that  ethereal  tree 

Where  hangs  your  nest.     Let  earth  go  as  it  will; 

For  if  men  darken  their  own  lives  through  pain, 

Because  they  will  not  act  the  good  they  know. 

Even  pity  has  no  power  to  succor  them. 

Choose  freedom !     Come ! 
MEROPE.     My  freedom  is  to  stay. 
DIAN  (turns  from  Merope).     More    words    were    vain.     Yet 

with  regret  I  go. 

(Blows  her  horn.     The  dogs  return) 

Ho!  dogs,  the  gift  of  Pan; 

Scent  up  the  prey. 

Ho !  hounds,  and  fare  ye  forth, 

Ere  burns  the  day. 

Ye  six  of  spotted  coat, 

Hunt  lion's  lair; 


THE  LOST  PLEIAD  55 

Ye  Spartan  seven  swift, 

Stir  fauns  and  hare. 

Now  through  the  grey  greenwood, 

Crash  through  the  brush; 

After  we  have  passed  there  falls, 

In  wake  of  us,  a  hush. 

[Exit  Dian  with  the  hounds* 
MEROPE  (starts  after  Dian).    Dian!  Desert  not  now  your  little 

maid. 

The  woods  will  empty  be,  when  you  are  fled.     (Stops) 

No,  Merope!     Let  Dian  go  her  way. 

The  heart's  good  choice  the  will  must  consummate. 
ISIDORE  (pushes  off  the  basket;  whispers) .  Now  is  my  chance. 

(Starts  to  rise;  Merope  sees  some  one  approaching  on  the 

leftt  comes  forward.     Isidore  conceals  himself  again) 

Not  yet. 
MEROPE  (looks  left).     On  evil  errand  bound  this  stranger  is. 

No  light  surrounds  his  spirit  as  he  walks, 

But  like  the  night,  his  soul  is  robed  in  black. 

I  would  not  meet  with  him;  he  wills  naught  good. 

[Searches  for  a  hiding  place,  discovers  a  cave  formed  by  the 

rocks  in  the  rear  which  she  enters.     Isidore  rises,  and  lies 

down  across  the  entrance  to  the  cave. 
ISIDORE.     The  bird  is  safe.     This  cave's  the  cage,  this  rock 

The  door,  and  I,  the  lock  upon  the  door, 

That's  fitted  only  with  a  golden  key. 

Whoever  entrance  gains  must  first  pay  me. 

Knowledge  is  golden;  therefore  I'll  be  wise. 

[Feigns  sleep.     Enter  Tolmid  left. 
TOLMID.     Why  should  I,  Tolmid,  bow  to  Sisyphus? 

Injustice  fans  my  hate,  for  why  should  he 

Be  ever  fortunate,  and  always  gain 

What  he  desires,  while  ever  I  remain 

In  name,  place,  state,  to  him  inferior. 

(Comes  upon  Isidore) 

What  fellow's  this,  asleep  upon  wet  grass? 

[Kicks  Isidore,  who  starts  up,  feigning  anger. 


56  THE  LOST  PLEIAD 

ISIDORE.     Who  kicked  me? 

TOLMID.     The  pleasure  was  mine. 

ISIDORE.     Apologize. 

TOLMID  (laughs  cynically).     The  fellow's  drunk. 

ISIDORE.     I  deny  it. 

TOLMID.     Why  do  you  sleep  here? 

ISIDORE  (aside,  recognizing  Tolmid).  'Tis  Tolmid.  Lucky 
Isidore!  (Turns  to  Tolmid)  My  head  being  top-heavy 
with  the  weight  of  some  newly  acquired  information,  I 
laid  down,  master.  I  had  not  meant  to  sleep.  I  am 
waiting  for  Tolmid. 

TOLMID.     Tolmid? 

ISIDORE.  Aye,  the  great  Tolmid,  —  he  who  stands  second 
to  the  king. 

TOLMID.     Second? 

ISIDORE.  Yes,  master.  But  in  my  opinion,  and  there  be 
many  who  agree  with  me,  a  man  more  fit  to  be  king  than 
the  present  royal  dreamer. 

TOLMID.     My  friend,  you  speak  boldly. 

ISIDORE.     He  who  thinks  boldly  must  speak  so. 

TOLMID.  Since  you  wait  for  Tolmid,  what  can  he  do  for 
you? 

ISIDORE.  The  question  is,  rather,  what  can  Isidore  do  for 
Tolmid?  Much,  master,  much. 

TOLMID.  I  am  friend  to  Tolmid.  I  promise  you  his  good 
will. 

ISIDORE.     Assist  me  to  rise.     (Holds  out  his  hand  to  Tolmid, 
who  hesitates  to  take  it)     Well,  I  need  more  sleep. 
[Lies  down  again. 

TOLMID  (offers  his  hand  to  Isidore).     Pardon,  friend. 

ISIDORE  (rises,  with  Tolmid' s  aid).  'Tis  wise  to  be  dem 
cratic  these  days.  Thanks,  master.  Allow  me  to  light 
my  lantern.  Moonlight  may  suit  lovers,  but  for  affairs 
of  business,  give  me  real  light.  (Lights  his  lantern.  The 
scene  grows  brighter)  So !  Master,  have  I  your  word  that 
this  is  a  little  matter  of  business?  Were  I  dealing  directly 
with  Tolmid,  — 


THE  LOST  PLEIAD  57 

TOLMID.     Let  this  speak  for  Tolmid. 
[Gives  Isidore  money. 

ISIDORE  (counts  the  money).  Thank  you.  All  trade  is  built 
on  trust.  (Slips  the  coins  into  his  pocket)  This,  I  take  it, 
is  but  an  appetiser.  The  feast's  to  follow.  For  this  sum, 
master,  you  might  obtain  a  peasant  maid,  but  I  can  offer 
you,  of  course,  on  sufficient  inducement,  — 

TOLMID  (impatient).    To  your  point. 

ISIDORE.    Master,  do  you  believe  in  dreams? 

TOLMID.    I  play  no  fool  to  fantasies. 

ISIDORE.  Nor  I.  My  reason  guides  my  will.  Still,  one  must 
believe  one's  eyes,  and  with  these  eyes  that  look  on  you, 
I've  seen  to-night,  here  on  this  spot,  this  very  spot,  — 

TOLMID  (more  impatient).    Well,  talker,  whom  have  you  seen? 

ISIDORE.  The  thieving  nereids.  They  robbed  me  of  my 
wares.  Proof,  —  my  empty  basket. 

TOLMID  (starts  left).    I've  no  time  for  nereids. 

ISIDORE.    Wait !   Also,  I  have  seen  Diana,  goddess  of  chastity. 

TOLMID.     The  lady  does  not  interest  me. 

ISIDORE.     Listen!     Also,  I  have  seen  Merope,  the  king's 
bride. 
[Watches  Tolmid,  for  the  effect  of  his  speech. 

TOLMID  (alert) .    The  king's  bride,  — 

ISIDORE.  The  Pleiad,  come  to  earth,  a  miracle.  Just  as  the 
king  dreamed. 

TOLMID  (affects  indifference).    What  matters  that  to  Tolmid? 

ISIDORE.  My  lord,  either  you  are  exceedingly  sly,  or  exceed 
ingly  slow.  I  incline  to  the  former  opinion,  but  will  reply 
as  if  my  wits  were  dull. 

TOLMID  (turns  from  Isidore).  Talk,  talk,  talk!  (Turns  back 
to  Isidore)  Well,  I'll  hear  you  out. 

ISIDORE.  'Twill  pay  you,  master,  to  listen  to  Isidore.  The 
Pleiad's  here.  If  Tolmid  should  send  her  back  to  heaven 
whence  she  came,  the  king  could  not  marry  her.  His 
dream  would  not  come  true,  all  Corinth  would  say  he  was 
crazy,  and  laugh  him  out.  Once  make  a  man  ridiculous, 
and  he's  lost. 


58  THE  LOST  PLEIAD 

TOLMID.     If  the  Pleiad  loves  the  king,  she'll  not  return  to 

heaven. 
ISIDORE.     She'll  have  to,  if  you  send  her  there.    (Makes  the 

motion  of  killing  some  one  with  the  sword).    Since  she's  on 

earth,  she's  mortal,  just  like  any  of  us. 
TOLMID  (aside).    My  daytime  sense  yields  to  this  night's  spell. 

(Gives  Isidore  more  money)  There's  for  reason  gone.    Where 

is  the  Pleiad? 
ISIDORE  (counts  the  money).    Sufficient  crumbs  may  in  time 

make  a  loaf.    Double  this,  master. 
TOLMID.     No  more.     Furthermore,  if  you  are  lying  to'me,  and 

there's  no  Pleiad  here,  I  shall  run  you  through,  and  send 

your  own  soul  back  to  heaven.     (Half  draws  his  sword) 

I'll  recover  my  money. 
ISIDORE  (frightened).     I  assure  you,  that  will  be  unnecessary. 

My  soul  is  not  prepared  for  heaven.     This  way,  master. 

(Leads  Tolmid  to  the  cave;  whispers)  The  Pleiad's  here. 
TOLMID.     If  this  is  a  trick,  remember,  — 

[Enters  the  cave. 
ISIDORE.     If  I'm  caught  lying,  I'm  run  through  with  the 

sword,  and  lose  my  money.    Merope  may  have  escaped. 

I'm  off!    Good  luck  to  you,  Tolmid.    I'll  conceal  my  going 

with  noise.     (Picks  up  his  empty  basket,  and  his  lantern. 

Goes  off  singing.    The  scene  is  lighted  again  by  moonlight) 

For  he's  a  fool  who  does  but  act 

Upon  a  person's  word; 

Yet  he's  a  fool  who  does  not  act 

Upon  what  he  has  heard. 

[The  song  concluded,  Tolmid  r centers  from  the  cave,  leading 

Merope,  who  resists  him,  frightened.] 
TOLMID.    The  churl  spoke  truth  for  once.  At  least,  I've  found 

a  maid,  —  a  pretty  one. 
MEROPE.     Pray,  let  me  go! 
TOLMID.     But  whether  you're  the  Pleiad, 

(Draws  her  into  the  bright  moonlight) 

Here's  more  light. 

Come!    Let  me  look  at  you.    A  pretty  face, 


THE  LOST  PLEIAD  59 

A  slender  form,  a  hand  that's  fine,  with  eyes 

That  would  do  Venus  honor.    Well,  and  good ! 

Yet  many  a  mortal  maid  is  just  as  fair. 

Give  me  some  sign  that  you  have  come  from  heaven. 
MEROPE.     No  sign  have  I  but  truth  within  my  heart. 

I  wore  a  star  in  heaven,  but  it  was  quenched 

When  I  touched  earth.     I  beg  you,  let  me  go. 
TOLMID.     I  half  believe  I  have  the  Pleiad  here. 

Each  gentle  word  makes  your  release  less  sure. 

Know  you  who  I  am? 
MEROPE.     Tolmid !  —  he  who  plots 

Against  the  king. 

TOLMID.     Nay!    He  who  shall  be  king. 
MEROPE.     Brazen  assertion  is  but  barren  proof. 
TOLMID.     You  love  the  king? 
MEROPE.    At  dawn  I'll  be  his  bride. 
TOLMID  (grasps  her  roughly}.    I  dream  no  dreams,  but  you  are 

in  my  power. 

You  think  to  marry  Sisyphus,  and  so 

Confirm  his  confidence  that  he  shall  mount 

To  higher  place  in  public  honor.     No ! 

I'll  take  no  risks  that  you  are  not  from  heaven. 

No  Pleaid  bride  shall  aid  the  man  I  hate. 

(Forces  Merope  to  her  knees,  and  draws  his  sword.    Clouds 

obscure  the  moon.     The  scene  grows  dark) 

Now  fate  is  kind  to  me  at  last. 
MEROPE  (in  terror).     Good  sir, 

What  ill  have  I  done  you,  that  you  harm  me? 
TOLMID.     Your  beauty  pleads  for  you,  but  all  in  vain. 

Though  you  were  thrice  as  fair,  my  will  I'd  work. 

A  weak  will  at  the  end  thwarts  ablest  plan. 
MEROPE  (stays  Tolmid9 s  hand,  which  holds  the  sword).    The  ill 

you  seek  to  do  me,  will  rebound 

Upon  yourself.     I  pray  you,  harm  me  not. 

Such  deeds/ Pandora  like,  bear  cask  of  woe. 
TOLMID.     Let  come  a  woe  more  deep  than  Tartarus, 

More  black  than  Stygian  waters,  and  more  fell 


60  THE  LOST  PLEIAD 

Than  Hydra's  hiss,  yet  welcome  would  it  be, 

So  it  came  after  I'd  obtained  my  will. 

You  shall  not  be  the  bride  of  Sisyphus. 

[Frees  his  hand,  raises  his  sword.     The  scene  grows  so  dark 

the  figures  of  Merope  and  Tolmid  are  scarcely  visible.     It 

thunders. 
MEROPE.     Grant    me    one    prayer,    before   you    strike    me 

down. 
TOLMID.    Prayers  do  no  harm.     But  come,  be  quick!    I 

wait. 
MEROPE  (in  supplication).     Oh,  mother,  dear  Pleione,  lend 

thy  aid. 

Fate  tangles  destiny  for  one  thou  lovest. 

You  bade  me  come  to  earth.     Oh,  save  me  now! 
TOLMID  (about  to  kill  Merope).    Now  goes  your  soul  to  heaven 

whence  it  came. 

[A  white  light  appears  upon  the  scene.     Tolmid  drops  as  if 

struck  by  lightning.     Pleione  is  revealed.    She  goes  quickly  to 

Merope,  raising  her. 
PLEIONE.     My  child? 
MEROPE.     My  mother,  —  you  have  come ! 
PLEIONE.     I  heard 

Your  cry,  and  came,  swift  through  the  trembling  night. 

For  when  a  soul  doth  utter  such  a  prayer, 

The  ether  trembles  to  the  outmost  zone, 

And  he  who  has  the  power  to  answer,  heeds. 
MEROPE  (points  to  Tolmid).  He  wills  to  kill  me. 
PLEIONE.  Child,  he  has  no  power, 

Save  what  you  give  him  by  this  mortal  fear. 
MEROPE.  I  knew  not  earth  was  thus;  it  looked  so  fair. 

Oh,  take  me  back  with  you  to  heaven  kind. 
PLEIONE.     Speak    you    such    timid    words?     Recall    them, 

^swift! 

Have  you  lost  faith  in  your  high  destiny? 

Then  learn  this  truth,  and  having  learned  it,  live 

On  earth  immortal  as  you  were  in  heaven, 

Until  your  work  is  done.     Take  courage,  child. 


THE  LOST  PLEIAD  61 

Let  not  the  earth  thought  weight  your  spirit  down. 

Death  has  no  power  save  fear  in  minds  of  men. 

Repeat  my  words. 
MEROPE  (humbly}.    Death  has  no  power  but  fear 

In  minds  of  men.     Forgive  me,  Pleione. 

I  shall  remain  on  earth.     I  am  rebuked. 
PLEIONE.     Now  speak  you  like  my  child,  my  Merope. 

Yet  Hermes  comes  with  firm  command  of  Zeus 

That  you  return.     Already  is  he  near. 
MEROPE.     I  shall  not  change. 
PLEIONE.     Kiss  me  farewell ! 
MEROPE.     Farewell ! 

(Kisses  Pleione,  who  immediately  goes  away.     The  white 

light  remains  about  Merope,  although  somewhat  dimmer. 

Merope  stands  an  instant  in  thought;    Tolmid  stirs,  turns. 

Merope  goes  to  him) 

This  man  hates  Sisyphus. 

(Takes  up  Tolmid's  sword,  raises  it  as  if  to  kill  him,  suddenly 
throws  it  down  in  horror) 

Did  I  this  deed, 

I'd  rank  the  same  as  Tolmid. 

[The  falling   sword   rouses    Tolmid.     He   sits   up,   dazed. 

Merope  retreats.     He  does  not  see  her  at  first. 
TOLMID  (notices  the  light}.     What!    Tis  day? 

I  must  have  lain  for  hours.     (Reaches  for  his  sword) 

My  trusty  sword! 

The  lightning  struck  me,  paralyzed  my  hand. 

(Rises,  sees  Merope,  stops,  astonished.     Merope  faces  him 

fearlessly) 

Still  here?    The  Pleiad?    Good!    You  said  at  dawn 

You  should  be  bride.     My  sword  will  wed  with  you. 

[Approaches  Merope  with  menace. 
MEROPE  (with  dauntless  conviction).    Against  the  Pleiad  has 

the  sword  no  power. 

[Tolmid 's  hand  drops. 
TOLMID.     The  second  time  I  fail.     Well,  be  it  so! 

(Laughs  harshly) 


62  THE  LOST  PLEIAD 

"Against  the  Pleiad  has  the  sword  no  power!" 

(Raises  his  sword) 

But  —  Sisyphus !    My  sword  has  power  there. 

[Laughs  again.     Goes  out  with  uplifted  sword. 
MEROPE.     I  sense  his  dreadful  meaning !    Sisyphus! 

My  king!  my  lover!    This  must  never  be. 

The  sword  of  Tolmid  must  be  rendered  dull. 

[Merope  turns  to  follow  Tolmid.     Enter  Hermes. 
HERMES.     Daughter  of  Pleione,  — 
MEROPE.     Nay,  stop  me  not ! 

HERMES.     From  Zeus  I  come  to  summon  you  to  heaven. 
MEROPE.     To  heaven!    When  my  love  is  in  danger?    No! 

Command  of  Zeus  is  less  than  mother's  wish, 

And  mother's  wish  less  than  decree  of  fate, 

But  fate  itself  less  than  demand  of  love. 

I  go  to  Sisyphus,  ere  'tis  too  late. 
HERMES.     You  will,  then,  to  remain  on  earth? 
MEROPE.     I  must. 
HERMES.     Farewell!    I  bear,  though  loath,  the  news  aloft. 

High  heaven's  lost  to  you  forevermore. 

[Exit  Hermes.    As  he  goes,  the  white  light  fades  from  about 

Merope.     The  scene  is  lighted  again  only  by  moonlight. 

Merope  stands  with  upraised  hands. 
MEROPE.     One  heaven  lost!    Another  to  be  gained. 

CURTAIN 

ACT  TWO 

The  scene  is  the  same  as  Act  One.  Dim  light,  which  slowly 
changes  to  colors  of  the  dawn.  Six  Pleiades  are  disclosed,  danc 
ing  in  stately  measure.  They  wear  garments  of  filmy  texture,  and 
on  the  forehead  of  each  shines  a  star.  They  sing.  Soft  music. 

CHORUS  OF  THE  PLEIADES. 

Nightly  we  shone, 
Sisters  seven, 
Brightly  we  graced 
Earth  and  heaven; 


THE  LOST  PLEIAD  63 

But  of  the  fair,  fairest  of  all, 

She  whom  we  sing,  she  whom  we  call, 

Merope !    Merope ! 

Sister  ours ! 

Weary  the  waiting,  weary  the  hours; 

Why  didst  thou  leave  us? 

Why  thus  so  grieve  us? 

Lovely  as  Hebe 

Walked  she  heaven, 

Followed  by  leash  hound, 

By  Dian  given. 

Golden  her  hair  that  gold  fillet  bound, 

Golden  her  girdle  that  cinctured  her  round. 

Merope !    Merope ! 

Sister  ours ! 

Vacant  thy  place  is,  withered  the  flowers, 

Gathered  at  morning 

For  thy  adorning. 

Daughters  of  Atlas, 

Born  of  Pleione, 

Ocean  sprung,  mountain  sprung, 

Mountain  Cyllene; 

Maia,  Electra,  Taygete  named, 

Sterope,  Celaeno,  Alcyone  famed, 

Abiding  in  heaven, 

Must  we  deny  thee? 

Merope !    Merope ! 

Where  dost  thou  hide  thee? 

Sister-love  sending, 

Swiftly  we  fly, 

Searching  all  places  we  can  descry; 

Warm  is  the  warmth  of  love,  in  love  abiding; 

Strong  is  the  strength  of  love,  in  love  confiding. 

Merope !    Merope ! 

Little  one  dear! 


64  THE  LOST  PLEIAD 

Could  we  but  see  thee,  could  we  but  hear, 

Thy  laughter  ringing, 

Thy  tender  singing ! 

[The  song  concluded,  the  Pleiades  pass  quickly  out  to  the  left. 

Enter  Merope,  from  the  right,  dejected. 
MEROPE.     It  was  decreed  we  could  not  meet  till  dawn. 

All  night  I've  searched  for  him  in  vain.     I  pray 

He  come  now,  as  he  dreamed,  unharmed. 

(Six  white  doves  fly  in  from  the  left.     They  flutter  above 

Merope) 

The  doves! 

My  sisters!  gentle  Pleiades!    You  fly 

To  far  Hesperides  to  fetch  for  Zeus 

Ambrosia.     Not  seven,  now,  you  go, 

But  shorn  of  your  dear  sister,  sadly  six. 

(Caresses  the  doves) 

Such  sadness,  though,  is  kind  of  happiness,  ^ 

Like  tender  music  played  in  minor  key. 

I'll  not  return  to  you,  yet  I  am  glad, 

Like  scent  to  flower,  clings  sister-love  to  me. 

(Lets  the  doves  go) 

Each  night  I'll  look  to  heaven,  and  send  you  prayers. 

[The  doves  fly  out  to  sea.     Merope  kisses  her  hands  to  them. 

Enter  Iris.     The  dawn  grows  brighter.     Merope  stands  in 

the  rear,  unseen  by  Iris. 
IRIS.     Now  dim-eyed  night  with  cloud-encircled  form, 

Doth  creep  to  Tartarus,  as  forth  steps  day, 

Robed  in  a  garment  woven  of  frail  light, 

And  gazing  with  blue  eyes  upon  the  world; 

Now  tune  the  birds  their  matin  orchestra, 

When  robin's  lusty  note  outshouts  the  rest; 

Now  is  the  time  consummate.     At  the  dawn 

Shall  Merope  meet  Sisyphus.     I  call 

The  willing  actors  to  their  several  parts. 

Ho !    Sisyphus  —  ho !    Sisyphus  —  the  king. 

Ho !    Merope  —  ho !    Merope  —  the  queen. 

[Merope  runs  forward. 


THE  LOST  PLEIAD  65 

MEROPE.     O  Iris,  is  he  safe?    Where  is  the  king? 

Has  harm  befallen  him?     Oh,  I  must  hear. 
IRIS.     Now  comes  he  with  Leontes  through  the  wood, 

To  meet  you  here. 
MEROPE.     Oh,  happy,  happy  dawn! 
IRIS.     Lo !  see  the  east  — 

The  dawn  has  changed  to  rose.     I  must  away ! 

I  shall  be  visible  to  you  no  more; 

But  when  in  after  dawnings  you  awake, 

As  from  strange,  joyous  dream  unmemorized, 

Know  you  have  been  with  Iris  in  far  fields. 

Men  call  it  rest  in  sleep;   'tis  heaven,  instead, 

Which  touches  them,  though  they  be  unaware. 
MEROPE.     Then  heaven's  not  lost  to  me? 
IRIS.     If  kept  within 

The  heart,  heaven  is  never  lost.     Farewell! 

[Exit  Iris. 
MEROPE.    He  comes!  He  comes!  Then  Tolmid  wrought  no  ill. 

Oh,  I  am  glad!    I'll  hide  within  the  wood; 

'Twould  not  be  maidenly  to  seem  in  haste. 

I'd  rather  he  should  search  for  me  awhile. 

(Goes  right,  stops) 

What  if  he  know  me  not,  but  ask  some  proof 

That  I  am  Merope,  as  Tolmid  did? 

Nay!  that's  impossible.     It  could  not  be. 

I've  but  to  show  him  love  within  my  eyes. 

[Merope  runs  out,  right.     Enter  Tolmid,  left,  cloaked. 
TOLMID.     I  would  that  it  keep  dark.     The  night  were  best, 

For  then  is  most  effective  that  fell  brood 

Which  night  ununioned  bore :  —  fate,  death,  and  sleep, 

Oblivion,  wanton  love,  oaths,  fraud,  and  pain; 

Contentions,  doubts,  disputes,  and  homicides  — 

The  pitiless  instruments  that  men  must  use 

To  gain  their  will.     I  thought  that  Sisyphus 

Would  come,  ere  now.     (Looks  out  left) 

Ah!  who  is  this,  with  lights, 

As  if  it  still  were  night?     I'll  not  be  seen. 


THE  LOST  PLEIAD 


[Tolmid  retreats  rear.     Enter  from  the  left  three  workmen, 

carrying  lighted  lanterns,  which  they  blow  out,  as  they  set  them 

down. 

MASTER  WORKMAN  (to  First  Workman).    Have  you  the  writ 
ten  measurements? 
FIRST  WORKMAN  (fumbles  in  his  blouse).    I  think  so,  master. 

(Takes  out  a  paper)    Yes,  here  they  are. 
MASTER  WORKMAN  (takes  the  paper,  reads).    A  platform  to  be 

erected,  forty  paces  long,  and  thirty  paces  wide.     For  the 

dance,  I  suppose. 

(Folds  the  paper,  puts  it  in  his  belt) 

Get  to  work,  men. 
SECOND  WORKMAN.     We  ought  to  have  started  this  work 

before. 
MASTER  WORKMAN.     My  lord  Leontes  only  gave  me  the  order 

at  midnight.     He  sent  to  my  door,  and  roused  me  from  as 

sound  a  sleep  as  I've  had  in  moons. 
FIRST  WORKMAN.     Of  what  is  the  platform  to  be  made? 
MASTER  WORKMAN.     Of  board  planks.     Did  you  think  it 

was  to  be  the  platform  of  a  political  party,  to  exist  only  on 

paper? 

[Laughs  at  his  joke. 

SECOND  WORKMAN.     Where  are  the  boards? 
FIRST  WORKMAN.     Not  arrived. 
SECOND  WORKMAN.     Shall  we  hew  down  trees,  and  make  our 

own  planks? 

FIRST  WORKMAN  (sits  down).    We  must  wait  for  the  material. 
MASTER    WORKMAN    (rouses    up    First\    Workman.      Bustles 

about).     Wait!     Not  on  your  life.     Get  to  work,  there. 

Measure  off  the  space. 
FIRST  WORKMAN.     I  left  my  measure  in  the  shop.     I'll  go 

back  for  it,  master. 
MASTER  WORKMAN.     Not  this  evening.     This  job  is  not  a 

time  job.     We're  on  contract.     Every  man  to  finish  as 

quick  as  he  can.     Get  to  work  everybody.     Pace  the 

space.     Quick ! 
SECOND  WORKMAN.     How  long  shall  I  pace,  master? 


THE  LOST  PLEIAD  67 

MASTER  WORKMAN.     To  the  full  of  your  stretch. 

FIRST  WORKMAN  (aside  to  Second  Workman).     The  master 
sells  lumber.     He,  he!    To  the  full  of  your  stretch. 
[Second  Workman  overpaces,  and  falls. 

MASTER  WORKMAN  (angry  at  Second  Workman).  What  are 
you  wasting  your  time  for? 

SECOND  WORKMAN.  I  overstretched,  master,  pacing  for  lum 
ber. 

MASTER  WORKMAN   (to  First  Workman).     Where  are  your 
tools? 
[Second  Workman  rises. 

FIRST  WORKMAN.     I  will  go  for  the  tools,  master. 

MASTER  WORKMAN.     Are  no  tools  here? 

FIRST  WORKMAN.  We  thought  this  was  a  time  job,  master. 
I  will  go  back  to  the  shop  for  the  tools. 

MASTER  WORKMAN  (in  a  rage).  No  tools,  no  boards,  no  any 
thing,  and  you  workmen  doing  nothing.  By  the  dogs! 
And  this  work  on  contract. 

SECOND  WORKMAN.  We  can't  build  the  platform,  to-night, 
that's  sure. 

MASTER  WORKMAN.    I  dismiss  you,  all,  every  one  of  you. 

FIRST  WORKMAN.  Listen,  master.  Perhaps  the  king's 
dream  won't  come  true. 

MASTER  WORKMAN.  We  could  collect  just  the  same,  if  the 
work  was  done. 

FIRST  WORKMAN.  No  man  likes  to  be  shown  a  fool.  If  the 
dream  should  not  come  true,  the  king  might  be  exceed 
ingly  glad  to  have  no  reminders  about  in  the  shape  of  dance 
platforms. 

MASTER  WORKMAN.  He,  he!  And  would  pay  us  better  for 
having  failed  to  build  the  platform,  than  for  building  it. 
That's  a  good  idea. 

SECOND  WORKMAN.  Well,  since  we  can't  build  the  platform, 
anyway,  it's  worth  considering. 

[The  Workmen  take  up  their  lanterns ',  and  are  about  to  pass 
out.     Tolmid  steps  forward. 

TOLMID.     My  friends ! 


68  THE  LOST  PLEIAD 

MASTER  WORKMAN  (to  his  men).     Wait,  there. 
[The  workmen  pause. 

TOLMID.     In  whose  employ  are  you? 

MASTER  WORKMAN  (offended).  I'm  an  independent  con 
tractor,  sir.  These  are  my  men. 

WORKMEN  (bowing).     Yes,  sir. 

TOLMID.  I  beg  your  pardon.  My  meaning  was,  for  whom 
are  you  building  the  platform. 

FIRST  WORKMAN.     We're  not  building  it,  sir. 

TOLMID.  Yes,  yes.  I  understand.  But  for  whom  were 
you  building  it? 

MASTER  WORKMAN.  I've  a  contract  with  his  majesty,  the 
king. 

TOLMID.  Come !  I've  a  job  for  you  that  will  pay  you  better. 
[Displays  a  bag  of  money. 

MASTER  WORKMAN.    At  your  service,  my  lord. 

WORKMEN  (bowing).    At  your  service. 

TOLMID.  You  are  patriotic,  I  trust,  like  all  good  citizens,  and 
ready  to  serve  the  state.  The  state  pays  well  for  service. 

MASTER  WORKMAN.     We'll  gladly  serve  the  state.     Eh,  men? 

WORKMEN.     Yes,  sire. 

TOLMID.  I  see  I  can  rely  on  you.  Know  you  the  king  by 
sight? 

ALL.     We  do. 

TOLMID.    And  lord  Leontes? 

ALL.     We  do. 

TOLMID  (shakes  the  gold).  Listen!  The  king  comes  through 
the  woods  to-night  in  obedience  to  a  fantastic  dream.  This 
you  know.  First,  however,  Leontes  will  come  with  a  single 
companion.  This  man  resembles  the  king.  Indeed,  you 
will  scarcely  know  him  from  the  king,  but  don't  be  deceived 
by  that.  It's  part  of  the  plot. 

ALL.     Plot? 

TOLMID.  There's  a  dastardly  plot  on  to-night  to  kill  the 
king,  when  he  comes  to  meet  his  bride.  The  man  with 
Leontes  is  responsible.  Would  you  save  your  king? 

ALL.     We  would,  sire. 


THE  LOST  PLEIAD 


TOLMID.    Then,  my  friends,  with  your  clubs,  there,  strike 

down  Leontes'  companion.     Beat  him  to  death.     With 

proof  that  you  have  done  your  work  well,  you  will  find 

waiting  for  you  in  Corinth,  three  talents  of  gold. 
FIRST  WORKMAN.     Three  talents!    That's  a  heap  of  money. 
SECOND  WORKMAN.     But  we're  to  kill  a  man  to  get  it. 
MASTER  WORKMAN.     My  men,  it's  in  the  service  of  the  state. 

You  save  your  king. 
SECOND  WORKMAN.     But  I  couldn't  kill  anybody.    It'd  make 

me  sick. 

MASTER  WORKMAN.     You  can  hold  the  other  fellow. 
TOLMID  (tosses  the  gold  to  the  Master  Workman) .    So  it's  agreed. 

There's  to  bind  the  contract. 
MASTER  WORKMAN  (pockets  the  money).    By  which  path  comes 

the  murderer? 

TOLMID.     Direct  from  Corinth,  as  you  came. 
MASTER   WORKMAN   (brandishes  his  club).     Kill   the   king, 

would  he?    We'll  see  to  that.     Come,  men! 

[The  Workmen  go  out. 
TOLMID.     So  let  him,  if  he  will,  believe  in  dreams. 

I'll  follow  presently,  and  finding  him, 

Will  say,  "Dreamer,  it  were  pity  to  awake." 

Then  Tolmid  shall  be  king,  and  being  so, 

The  Pleiad  shall  be  mine.     I'm  glad  she  lives. 

'Twere  pity  to  have  killed  a  thing  so  fair. 

She  weds  the  king,  she  says,  so  she  weds  me. 

(Walks  about,  impatient) 

By  now,  those  fellows  should  have  struck  their  blow. 

(Sees  Sisyphus  and  Leontes  approaching  by  boat) 

The  king !     Leontes !     Coming  here  by  boat ! 

The  deadly  deed  must  now  be  Tolmid's  task. 

[Draws  his  sword,  hides.    Enter  from  the  sea  Sisyphus  and 

Leontes. 
SISYPHUS.     I've  never  known  you,  friend,  so  timorous. 

To  please  you  I  have  stayed  with  you  all  night. 

You  conjure  danger  out  of  quietude, 

Fancying  the  shadows,  even,  ambushed  foe, 


70  THE  LOST  PLEIAD 

And  flight  of  birds  an  enemy's  approach. 

This  is  the  habit  of  a  timid  soul, 

Not  worthy  you,  Leontes. 
LEONTES.     'Tis  my  love, 

Which  makes  me  fear  for  you,  my  lord.    The  things 

In  nature  answer  to  our  mood.     To  you 

I  owe  all  that  I  am,  or  have,  and  I, 

Though  you  flout  danger  foolishly,  would  give 

My  life  for  you. 
SISYPHUS  (with  hand  on  Leontes'  shoulder).     Dear  friend,  fear 

not  for  me. 
LEONTES.     I  beg  that  you  return  before  ill  comes. 

I  feel  that  it  lies  near.     Stay  not  alone 

In  this  strange  place,  which  may  but  ambush  prove. 

Desire  may  urge,  discretion  whispers,  "Nay." 
SISYPHUS.     Taut  harnessing  the  winds  that  now  sport  wild, 

You  know  how  I  would  make  these  vacant  seas 

Alive  with  ships  sailing  to  Araby; 

You  know  how  I  desire  that  men  should  be 

Not  servitors  of  fear,  nor  couched  in  ease, 

Chained  to  their  ancient  doubts  and  selfish  aims, 

But  having,  as  is  meant,  dominion  o'er 

The  earth,  —  and  what  is  more,  over  themselves; 

Yet  should  I  fail  to  realize  these  aims, 

Still  would  I  fate  fulfill,  if  wed  to  her 

Whom  heaven  disclosed  to  me,  my  Pleiad  bride; 

And  from  the  union,  clear  as  this  pure  spring, 

Which  like  a  poet's  inspiration  flows 

Forth  to  the  day  from  some  invisible  source, 

Be  born  a  god-like  child. 
LEONTES.     My  lord,  beware 

Man  cannot  be  a  god. 
SISYPHUS.     There  lies  my  fault. 

You  fear  a  foe  without,  I,  one  within. 

Bearing  within  my  breast  the  consciousness 

Of  power,  I  may  be  overproud,  and  claim 

For  self  the  glory. 


THE  LOST  PLEIAD  71 

LEONTES.     This  is  fault,  my  lord, 

Only  as  it  is  excess  of  virtue. 
SISYPHUS.     Look ! 

There  breaks  the  dawn,  a  red  streak  in  the  east. 

The  slumbering  seas  reflect  the  wizard  beam; 

Afar  arise  the  snow-capped  peaks  of  song, 

Hymettus,  and  the  far-famed  Helicon. 

Though  I  have  years,  this  moment  is  my  birth. 

The  womb  of  fate  springs  wide,  and  sends  me  forth. 

I  search  for  Merope.     She  must  be  near. 
LEONTES     (attempts  to  hold  Sisyphus  back).     My  lord  wait 

here! 
SISYPHUS.    Leontes,  let  me  go! 

[Frees  himself  from  Leontes'  hold,  and  goes  out  to  the  right. 

Tolmid  tries  to  slip  past  Leontes  to  follow  Sisyphus.    Leontes 

grapples  with  Tolmid. 
LEONTES.     'Tis  as  I  thought.    It  does  not  take  much  day 

For  me  to  know  you,  Tolmid,  or  your  will. 

You  shall  not  pass  to  murder  Sisyphus, 

Unless  it  be  above  Leontes'  form. 
TOLMID.     A  slight  youth,  you,  to  mouth  such  braggart  words. 

[Tolmid  and  Leontes  fight.    Stabbed  by  Tolmid,  Leontes  falls. 
LEONTES  (calls,  painfully).     My  lord! 

(Reenter  Sisyphus,  running)  I've  fallen  at  his  hand. 
SISYPHUS  (supports  Leontes).     What's  happened? 
LEONTES  (faintly).    Beware  of^ Tolmid.    He  doth  mean  you 

ill. 
SISYPHUS  (sees  Tolmid).    This  is  your  work,  yours,  Tolmid, 

whom  I  loved. 

(To  Leontes)  Leontes!  my  dear  friend,  —  take  courage, 

live! 
LEONTES.     I  am  too  heavy.     Lay  me  on  the  ground. 

[Leontes  dies  in  Sisyphus9  arms.    Sisyphus  lays  him  on  the 

ground,  covers  him  with  his  cloak.     Tolmid  approaches  Sisy 
phus  stealthily,  to  stab  him  in  the  back,  as  he  bends  over 

Leontes.     Sisyphus  quickly  turns,  faces  Tolmid. 
SISYPHUS.     Oh,  base  beyond  belief! 


72  THE  LOST  PLEIAD 

TOLMID.     Draw,  Sisyphus! 

And  prove  which  is  the  better  man  of  us. 
SISYPHUS.    Now  I  could  strike  you  down,  like  some  low 

worm, 

But  I'll  not  fight. 
TOLMID.     Do  you  refuse  to  draw? 
SISYPHUS.     I  am  the  king. 
TOLMID.     Is  kingship,  then,  a  plea 

For  cowardice?     By  what  right  are  you  king? 
SISYPHUS.     My  own. 
TOLMID.     Has  heaven  favorites,  that  it, 

Like  unfair  mother,  pets  a  certain  child? 

Why  should  one  man  be  king,  and  not  another? 
SISYPHUS.     In  sight  of  heaven,  all  men  are  kings.     Grant 

that, 

The  rest  remains  with  us. 
TOLMID.     So  be  it,  then ! 

All  men  are  kings,  but  some  do  wear  the  crown, 

While  others  serve. 
SISYPHUS  (over  the  form  of  Leontes) .     No  crown  could  outshine 

that 

Which  rests  now  on  the  head  of  him  you  slew. 

You,  Tolmid,  have  met  life  with  critic  sneer, 

Yet  for  our  boyhood  friendship  I  raised  you 

To  place  of  minister.     Leave  Corinth!     Go! 

Before  I  strike  you  dead,  ds  is  my  power. 
TOLMID.     You  grant  me  life?     I  spurn  your  favors.     Ha! 

[Rushes  on  Sisyphus  with  his  sword.    Sisyphus  is  compelled 

to  defend  himself.     They  fight  fiercely. 
SISYPHUS.     Trickster!  coward! 
TOLMID.     Call  what  names  you  will! 

[Tolmid  wounds  Sisyphus,  who  falls. 
SISYPHUS.     My  fatth  was  wrong.    I  am  not  king;  —  not  king ! 

Or  you  would  have  no  power  over  me. 

[Tolmid  is  about  to  slay  Sisyphus.     Enter  Merope.     She 

arrests  Tolmid' s  sword. 
MEROPE.     I  heard  the  noise  of  battle.     Tolmid,  hold! 


THE  LOST  PLEIAD  73 

An  armistice!    What,  would  you  murder  him? 

A  fallen  enemy?     Lay  down  your  sword. 

Rise,  Sisyphus !     Your  wound  is  naught. 
SISYPHUS.     Who  speaks? 

[Merope  stands  so  that  Sisyphus  does  not  see  her. 
MEROPE.     The  voice  of  heaven ! 

(To  Tolmid,  indicating  that  he  lay  his  sword  down)  Obey! 
TOLMID.     I  keep  my  sword. 

It  is  the  only  weapon  that  I  have. 
MEROPE.     Then  are  you  ignorant  of  true  defense. 

Rise,  Sisyphus !     Fight  not  as  king, 

But  man,  against  your  foe,  since  fight  you  must. 

[Sisyphus  rises.     Merope  retreats.     The  fight  is  renewed. 
SISYPHUS.     "Fight  not  as  king,  but  man!"     Aye,  so  I  fight. 

(Tolmid  falls,  mortally  wounded}  Thanks,  heavenly  voice, 

that  gave  me  strength  to  win. 

[Tolmid  forces  himself  to  rise.     Staggers  to  exit. 
TOLMID.     Thus  has  it  ever  been,  you  fortunate, 

And  I,  whate'er  my  will,  compelled  to  yield. 

[Exit  Tolmid.     Sisyphus  sheathes  his  sword,  kneels  beside 

Leontes,  draws  back  the  cloak  from  his  face,  weeps.    Merope 

advances,  and  stands  beside  Sisyphus. 
MEROPE.     Loved  you  this  man? 
SISYPHUS  (deems  Merope  some  peasant).     As   brother.     Oh! 

to  undo  this  cruel  deed ! 

How  true  it  is,  our  victory  too  oft 

Is  built  on  other's  woe.     To  this  still  friend 

I  owe  my  life.     Leontes  died  for  me. 
MEROPE  (bends  over  Leontes.     The  white  light  becomes  visible 

about  her).     Such  love  of  man  for  man  is  seldom  met; 

It  bears  within  itself  the  seed  of  life. 

Leontes  is  not  dead.     He  lives !    He  lives ! 

[Leontes  stirs,  lifts  his  head.     The  light  fades  from  Merope. 
LEONTES  (dazed,  stretches  his  hand  to  Sisyphus).     My  lord — 
SISYPHUS  (astonished).     What's  this?    He  speaks,  he  moves, 
he  breathes ! 

Yet  I  could  swear  his  heart  had  ceased  to  beat. 


74  THE  LOST  PLEIAD 

MEROPE.     Speak  to  your  friend. 

[Goes  to  the  pool,  takes  water  in  a  gourd,  and  returns  to 

Leontes. 

SISYPHUS.    Leontes ! 
LEONTES.     Give  me  drink. 

(Drinks  from  the  gourd,  which  Merope  holds  to  his  lips) 

Thanks,  sister.     You  are  kind.     Enough,  enough. 
SISYPHUS.     It  is  some  miracle.     I  can't  believe,  — 
MEROPE   (holds  the  gourd  up,   like  an  offering  to  heaven). 

Naught  is  death's  power,  but  fear  in  minds  of  men. 

[Leontes  rises;   as  if  drawn  by  some  irresistible  power,  ap 
proaches  Merope. 
LEONTES.     Whence  came  you?  —  who?  — 

[Sisyphus  rises.     Merope  turns,  and  looks  into  his  eyes. 
SISYPHUS  (with  joy).    The  Pleiad!    Merope! 

[Kneels  before  her. 

LEONTES.     The  dream  come  true.     I'll  never  doubt  again. 
SISYPHUS.     If  now  I  dream,  forever  let  me  dream, 

Lest  no  such  visions  feed  my  waking  eyes. 

My  Merope !     My  bride !    To  me  you've  come, 

The  tissue  of  my  thought  made  visible. 

[Merope,  drops  the  gourd,  holds  out  her  hands  to  Sisyphus, 

who  takes  them  in  his,  kissing  them. 
MEROPE.     You  ask  no  sign  from  heaven  to  my  truth? 
SISYPHUS.     You  are  yourself  your  own  most  heavenly  proof. 

Yours  was  the  power  that  brought  Leontes  back. 

Yours  was  the  voice  from  heaven  that  gave  me  strength. 
MEROPE.     Not  on  the  brawn  of  men,  or  sharpened  steel 

Rests  true  defense,  but  on  a  higher  power. 

The  sword  but  symbol  is;  in  righteousness 

If  drawn,  it  has  resistless  majesty. 

Yet  there  is  dawning  for  the  earth  a  day 

When  swords  shall  be  no  more.    'Tis  will  of  heaven. 

[Sisyphus  unfastens  his  sword,  and  lays  it  on  the  ground. 

Merope  takes  it  up,  passes  to  the  rear,  and  symbolically  flings 

it  into  the  sea.     Sisyphus  rises,  stands  with  bowed  head. 
SISYPHUS.     So  be  all  swords! 


THE  LOST  PLEIAD  75 

LEONTES.     Why,  this  were  heaven  on  earth! 

[Merope  returns  from  the  rear;  Sisyphus  meets  her,  leading 
her  forward.  The  sound  of  a  brawl  outside.  Enter  the 
Master  Workman,  beating  the  Fisherman,  who  is  protesting 
loudly. 

FISHERMAN.  By  all  the  thunder  and  lightning  of  the  uni 
verse,  by  all  the  rain  in  the  bucket  of  Neptune,  by  every 
thing  under  the  sun,  and  above  the  moon,  I  never  plotted 
to  kill  the  king. 

SISYPHUS  (parts  the  men).     What  is  this  quarrel? 

MASTER  WORKMAN  (kneels  to  Sisyphus).  Sire,  I've  saved 
your  life.  This  fellow,  so  Tolmid  said,  plotted  to  kill  you. 

FISHERMAN  (kneels  to  Sisyphus) .     Sire,  I'm  naught  but  a  poor 

fisherman.     I  never  plotted  to  kill  you,  nor  any  man. 

My  wife  is  sending  you  a  fish  for  supper.     (Enter  Bion, 

with  a  fish  on  a  platter.     Herse  follows,  with  a  wreath  of 

daisies) 

Here  is  the  fish !    A  god  put  it  on  my  line  for  me.     There 
fore  my  wife  said  it  was  too  good  for  us,  and  feared  to  eat 
it. 
[Herse  runs  to  Merope,  with  the  wreath. 

HERSE.     Here  is  a  wreath  I  made  for  you  by  moonlight. 

LEONTES.  Why,  this  is  the  fellow  who's  to  build  the  plat 
form  for  the  dance,  —  a  carpenter. 

MASTER  WORKMAN  (rises,  pompously).     Contractor,  sire. 

SISYPHUS  (raises  the  Fisherman) .     This  fellow  looks  innocent. 

MASTER  WORKMAN.  Tolmid  bade  us  kill  the  man  who 
walked  with  Leontes  through  the  wood. 

FISHERMAN.     I  never  walked  with  Leontes. 

LEONTES.    That  I  swear. 

MASTER  WORKMAN.     Contracts  are  contracts. 

SISYPHUS.  I  see,  you  had  to  kill  somebody,  to  get  your 
money. 

MEROPE  (comes  forward  with  Herse  and  Bion).     My  lord, 
these  are  the  kind  fisher  folk  who  sheltered  me  last  night. 
I  know  they  mean  you  no  harm. 
[Enter  First  and  Second  Workmen. 


76  THE  LOST  PLEIAD 

FIRST  WORKMAN.     Murder!     Master,  he  who  promised  us 

the  bag  of  gold  lies  in  the  wood. 
SECOND  WORKMAN.     Slain!     Fallen  into  a  hawthorn  bush, 

the  thorns  catching  his  eyes. 
FIRST  WORKMAN.     Who  will  pay  us  the  gold? 
MASTER   WORKMAN.      Ssh,  —  ssh !     Say  naught   about  the 
gold. 

[Draws  the  men  back. 

SISYPHUS.     Leontes,  I  appoint  you  minister. 
LEONTES.     My  loyal  thanks!     I'll  strive  to  serve 'you  well. 
SISYPHUS.     The    plot    of    Tolmid's    done.      Reward    these 

men. 

LEONTES  (to  Merope).    Dear  lady,  you  shall  have  such  mar 
riage  feast, 

As  Corinth  never  saw  before.     Come,  friends! 

[Exit  Leontes,  followed  by  the  workmen,  fisherman,  Bion  and 

Herse.     The  sun  rises. 
MEROPE.     Lo !     Sisyphus,  the  day !    The  stars  are  gone. 

I  could  not  now  return,  e'en  though  I  would. 
SISYPHUS.     You  choose  to  stay  with  me? 
MEROPE.     Yes,  Sisyphus. 

Go  where  I  would,  I  must  return  to  you. 

Love's  arms  are  never  loosed,  but  ever  clasp 

Invisibly  the  object  of  desire; 

Love's  lips  are  never  far,  but  ever  speak 

Unvoiced  words  to  ever  listening  ear. 
SISYPHUS.     Yet  when  I  look  on  you,  I  would  not  keep 

You  here.     Earth's  ways  are  often  dark.     Too  bright 

You  are  for  sorrow,  and  for  toil  too  fair. 
MEROPE.     It  is  not  toil  to  do  what  we  desire. 

Fear  not  for  me,  my  king.     All  labor's  sweet, 

If  'tis  a  service  born  of  a  glad  will, 

And  I  would  prove  by  all  pure,  simple  things, 

Children,  and  home,  companionship,  and  you, 

That  earth,  if  mortals  wish,  can  be  as  heaven. 
SISYPHUS  (places  the  daisy  wreath  on  Merope's  head).    I  crown 

you  queen. 


THE  LOST  PLEIAD  77 

[Takes  her  in  his  arms,  kisses  her.     A  group  of  maidens 

dance  in  with  garlands. 
MEROPE.     The  sun-maids  come!     They  raise 

Each  morn  unto  their  lord,  the  sun,  glad  praise. 
SUN-MAIDEN'S  SONG. 

Light  and  glory, 

Rhythmic  sun, 

Lo!  to  greet  thee, 

Swift  we  come. 

Ah!  the  night  passed  wearily; 

Loath  to  sleep,  oh!  glad  were  we, 

When  thy  heralds  touched  our  eyes, 

Bidding  us  awake,  arise. 

Breezes  fresh  sweep  o'er  the  seas, 

Tossing  delicately  the  trees, 

While  the  shadows  flee  away, 

Chased  by  their  bright  enemy. 

Now  we  bare  our  breasts,  snow  white, 

To  receive  thy  shafts  of  light; 

Raise  our  arms  in  ecstasy, 

We  who  serve  thee,  yet  are  free. 

Were  we  blind,  thy  light  we'd  feel 

Through  our  veined  eyelids  steal; 

And  thy  warmth  would  cheer  our  bones, 

Lay  we  chill  and  dull  in  tombs. 

On  whatsoe'er  thy  glad  beams  rest, 

Is  made  glorified  and  blest. 

Beauty  of  the  earth  and  sky, 
In  our  hearts  increaseth  joy; 
Roses  shimmering  with  dew, 
Clover  garlands  gathered  new, 
Pearly  cloudlets  edged  with  gold, 
All  these  do  thy  powers  unfold. 
Even  the  silence  seems  to  shout 
As  the  splendid  sun  bursts  out. 


78  THE   LOST  PLEIAD 

Now  the  dawn  blooms  into  day, 
Slower  moves  our  rhythmic  sway; 
Swallows  darting  here  and  there, 
Almost  touch  our  floating  hair. 
We  the  dawn  and  sun-rise  sing, 
Others  praise  to  noon-time  bring; 
So  we  go,  again  to  come, 
When  to-morrow  is  begun. 

[Tossing  their  garlands  upon  Sisyphus  and  Merope  the  Sun- 
Maidens  run  off.  Sisyphus  and  Merope  pass  out  left. 
Enter  Isidore  from  the  right,  with  basket  freshly  filled  with 
wares. 

ISIDORE.     'Tis  never  well  to  be  discouraged,  friend, 
For  of  beginning  there  is  never  an  end. 

CURTAIN 


THE  CHINA  PIG 

EVELYN  EMIG 

EVELYN  EMIG  was  born  May  29,  1895,  at  Washington, 
D.  C.  She  was  educated  in  private  schools  and  at  George 
Washington  University,  where,  in  1919,  her  one-act  play 
The  Old  Order  won  the  University  Prize. 

In  the  spring  of  1918  she  joined  a  little  group  of  Harvard 
Forty-Seveners  in  helping  to  found,  and  the  following  fall 
was  elected  Director  of,  The  Incubator  Players,  a  little  theatre 
organization  of  about  a  hundred  members,  artists  of  all  de 
scriptions,  who  were  marooned  in  Washington  during  the 
War. 

Her  one-act  play  Wars  of  the  Sea  won  the  Hollywood  Com 
munity  Theatre  Prize  in 


THE  CHINA  PIG 

A  PLAY  IN  ONE  ACT 


BY  EVELYN  EMIG 


Characters 

ELIZABETH  MAYNARD,  the  mother. 
ELSA,  her  elder  daughter. 
MURIEL,  her  younger. 


COPYRIGHT,  1920,  BY  EVELYN  EMIQ. 
All  rights  reserved. 

No  performance  of  this  play,  either  amateur  or  professional,  may  be  given  without  special 
arrangement  with  Miss  Evelyn  Emig,  108  East  82nd  Street,  New  York  City. 


THE  CHINA  PIG 

The  scene  is  the  living  room  of  a  sixty-dollar  per  month 
apartment.  It  ?  filled  with  a  rather  heterogeneous  collection 
of  articles^  sorr.c  of  which  are  reminiscent  of  a  more  prosperous 
period  of  the  owner*  s^cw*"  ,•.  The  table  in  the  center  of  the  room 
is  of  beautiful  mahogany.  Two  of  the  chairs  are  of  the  same; 
a  third  is  a  comfortable  leather  Morris,  and  the  remaining  one 
is  of  reed.  A  bookcase  on  the  right  is  also  of  mahogany.  The 
mantle  on  the  left  matclfys  the  oak  doors,  of  which  there  are  three: 
erne,  the  entrance,  in  the  back,  left  of  a  large  window,  with  a 
gmall  desk  between,  the  other  two  beyond  the  bookcase  on  the  right. 
^The  first  of  these  last  two  leads  into  a  hall;  the  second  is  a  closet 

The  surroundings  blend  somewhat  —  it  is  a  room  much  used 
that  there  is  no  clashing  element  to  offend  a  cultivated 
nai  lire,  but  neither  is  there  any  artistic  effect.    The  whole  atmos 
phere  seems  somewhat  subdued  and  depressed;    but  it  is  an 

\*nergetic  depression;  there  is  nothing  lethargic  about  it.  Per 
haps  it  is  the  woman  who  conveys  the  impression;  she  seems 
somehow  to  dominate  the  room.  One  rather  wonders  why.  She 
is  no  longer  young:  about  forty-three,  one  should  judge,  and 
whatever  charm  she  may  have  possessed  —  it  probably  lay  in  her 
yuick  black  eyes  and  her  young  determination  —  has  long  lain 
dormant.  She  is  badly^  dressed  in  an  old  brown  skirt  and  a 
phabby  waist.  Her  brown  hair  is  lifeless  and  her  mouth  is  faded, 
\wistful  at  times,  above  aij,  submissive;  but  her  eyes  are  deep  with 
fa  stubborn  determination  that  no  quantity  of  rebuffs  can  entirely 
lubdue. 

The  doorbell  has  runt}  with  the  rising  of  the  curtain  and  she 

•ms  crossing  from  the  hall  to  answer  it.  The  caller  is  a  messenger 
ivith  a  hatbox. 

JTHE  BOY.     Mrs.  Elizabeth  Maynard? 

JTHE  MOTHER  (eagerly).     Yes.    (Taking  the  box)    Thank  you. 


84  THE   CHINA  PIG 

[She  closes  the  door  and  carries  the  bo.-  quickly  to  the  table, 
where  she  opens  it  and  takes  out  the  hat.  She  carries  it  to  the 
mirror  and  tries  it  on  diffidently.  The  result  is  eminently 
satisfactory.  Reluctantly  she  removes  it  and  takes  it  back 
to  the  box.  In  it  she  sees  the  sales  slip.  She  opens  it.  The 
price,  she  realizes,  is  too  high;  but  she  does  want  the  hat. 
Regretfully  at  last  she  decides  that  she  cannot  afford  it.  Then 
she  returns  to  the  mantel  to  try  it  on  again. 
While  she  is  standing  there,  Muriel  enters. 

MURIEL  (is  eighteen,  a  slender,  unformed  young  thing  in  in 
conspicuous  attire;  awkward,  ambitious,  with  a  boyish 
straightforwardness,  but  with  all  a  girl's  dreams  and  ambi 
tions,  and  all  a  girl's  needs.  One  can  tell  that  from  the  word 
with  which  she  enters.  It  is  always  the  same).  Mother? — 
Say!  Some  hat! 

MOTHER.     Do  you  like  it? 

MURIEL  (enthusiastically).     It's  a  peach. 

MOTHER.     I'm  afraid  I  can't  keep  it. 

MURIEL.     Why  not? 

MOTHER.  Oh,  I  can't  afford  it.  I  saw  it  down  town  in  a 
window,  and  it  haunted  me.  So  I  telephoned  them  to 
send  it  up  on  approval. 

MURIEL.  Well  —  (with  an  air  of  finality)  keep  it.  It's  clas?y. 
How  much  is  it? 

MOTHER.     Eight  dollars. 

MURIEL.     Pshaw.     We  can  spare  that.     You  need  a  new  hi.y 
anyway.       That  old  one's  shabby.  —  Say,  mother,  yoft* 
look  spiffy  in  that.  With  a  new  coat  now,  and  a  set  of  furs  — 

MOTHER.     Oh,  Muriel! 

MURIEL.  Why  not?  You  just  wait  until  I  start  making, 
money.  Oh,  say!  What  do  you  think  I  "did?  I  went  up 
to  see  Edith  Gorman.  The  Red  Cross  woman,  you  know.. 

MOTHER.     What  for? 

MURIEL.  To  see  if  I  could  go  with  them  to  Armenia  next, 
year.  You  remember;  I  read  you  the  article  the  other  day . 
About  the  school  they  are  establishing? 

MOTHER.     They  wouldn't  take  you,  Muriel. 


• 


THE  CHINA  PIG  85 

MURIEL.  Why  not?  Of  course  she  would.  She  said  she 
would;  (qualifying)  said  she  might.  —  She  was  great  to 
me,  though. 

MOTHER.     What  did  she  say? 

MURIEL.  Oh,  she  told  me  all  about  the  mission.  First  thing> 
I  asked  her  if  she'd  take  me  with  her  when  she  goes  out 
next  year.  She  said  I'd  need  medical  training.  I  asked  if 
a  year  would  do ;  she  looked  at  me  rather  hard  and  said  it 
would  help.  Then  I  said:  If  I  study  for  a  year  will  you 
take  me?  And  she  said  perhaps  she  could.  Gee,  I  was 
rattled.  —  She  told  me  what  subjects  to  take,  and  what 
to  read  up  on. 

MOTHER  (the  hat  in  the  box,  has  seated  herself  in  the  Morris 
chair  and  taken  up  her  darning).  But,  Muriel.  Father 
expects  you  to  go  to  business  school. 

MURIEL.     Oh,  he  won't  care. 

MOTHER.     Yes,  he  will  care. 

MURIEL.  Well,  I  can't  help  it.  I'm  not  going  to  do  it.  I 
guess  I  have  a  right  to  choose  my  own  profession. 

MOTHER.     He's  paying  for  it. 

MURIEL  (annoyedly).     Oh,  lord,  he  won't  kick,  will  he? 

MOTHER.     You  mustn't  talk  like  that,  Muriel. 

MURIEL.     Will  you  talk  to  him? 

MOTHER.     I'll  try. 

MURIEL.     Do  you  think  he'll  be  really  sore? 

MOTHER.  I  hope  not.  But  he's  been  planning  for  years  to 
have  you  in  his  office.  Ever  since  you  were  small. 

MURIEL.  I  can't  help  it.  I'd  like  to  do  it  —  But  I  couldn't 
stand  working  in  an  office.  I  want  to  get  out  and  see  things. 

MOTHER  (looks  at  her,  the  light  of  understanding  in  her  eyes; 
Tmt  atlTshe  says  is) .  Red  Cross  work  is  a  hazardous  busi 
ness,  at  best.  It  means  hardships  and  bad  climates,  poor 
food,  a  life  away  from  your  own  civilization,  a^life  facing 
any  sort  of  possibility.  It  isn't  so  wonderful  as  it  sounds. 

MURIEL.  I  know!  I  know  what  it  is.  But  think  of  the  value 
of  it!  Think  of  what  it  accomplishes!  Think  of  what  it 
means  to  help  people,  to  uplift  them,  to  change  their  whole 


86  THE  CHINA  PIG 

lives.  Think  of  taking  little  heathen  babies  —  naked, 
ignorant  —  and  clothing  them,  teaching  them,  bringing 
them  up,  and  sending  them  out  to  teach  others !  Oh,  you 
can't  understand  —  you're  a  home  woman  — 

MOTHER  (half  to  herself).     Yes,  I  can  — 

MURIEL.  Wait —  (diving  down  into  her  coat  pocket).  Look 
what  she  gave  me.  (She  brings  out  a  photograph)  Isn't  that 
sweet!  Those  are  three  Kurdish  children  they  cared  for 
last  year.  Aren't  they  darling?  Look  at  their  little  dark 
faces. 

MOTHER  (taking  it,  with  great  interest).  Little  Kurdish  chil 
dren. 

MURIEL.     That's  in  Armenia,  you  know. 

MOTHER  (absorbed).     I  know. 

MURIEL.  Oh,  mother!  It's  just  what  I  want  to  do.  It's 
the  most  important  thing  in  life.  (She  turns  away  restlessly) 
Father's  got  to  let  me. 

MOTHER  (suggests  timidly).  Just  think,  Muriel.  Only  a  gen 
eration  removed  from  fierce,  wild,  almost  savage  people. 

MURIEL.     I  know. 
"MOTHER  (fingering  it  awkwardly) .    What  was  she  like,  Muriel? 

MFPTEL  (absorbed).     Oh,  sweet. 
"MOTHER.     Nice  looking? 

MURIEL.  No,  not  exactly.  Like  a  school-teacher  rather; 
like  a  school  principal.  (Pacing  up  and  down)  Oh,  I've  got 
to  go  with  her.  Father's  got  to  let  me.  I  wish  he'd  come 
home.  I  can't  stand  waiting.  (The  mother  is  fingering 
the  photograph,  wistfully.  Muriel  turns  decisively)  I  think 
I'll  go  down  to  the  office  and  talk  to  him  there. 

MOTHER  (laying  the  picture  on  the  table) .     He  may  be  busy. 

MURIEL.  I  know,  but  —  he  —  he'll  be  more  polite  down 
there,  with  his  clerks  around.  Besides,  I  can't  wait.  (She 
takes  up  her  hat)  Good-by. 

MOTHER.  Good-by.  (Muriel  comes  back  to  kiss  her)  Be 
good,  now. 

MURIEL  (off  again).  I  will.  (She  pauses  at  the  door  to  remind 
her)  And  mother,  you're  to  keep  the  hat. 


THE  CHINA  PIG  87 



MOTHER.     We'll  see. 

[She  is  gone.  The  mother  darns  slowly.  The  sock  finished, 
she  rolls  the  pair  of  them  up  in  a  little  ball  and  starts  on  a  long 
silk  stocking.  Once  she  stops  to  pick  up  the  picture  and  gaze 
at  it  dreamily,  but  she  lays  it  down  again.  After  a  moment, 
Elsa  enters. 

ELSA  (is  twenty-two;  tall,  slender,  self-reliant,  with  a  quick, 
decisive  charm.  She  is  an  independent  and  fearless  person,  a 
girl  who  has  weighed  life  in  the  balance  and  found  thereby  her 
own  scale  of  philosophy  by  which  she  is  satisfied  to  judge.  She 
has  little  sense  of  humor.  She  thinks  of  herself  as  "serious" 
and  worthwhile.  To-day  she  is  in  an  elated  mood  that  she 

does  not  try  to  repress,  although  she  is  usually  raiher^  re,*eritfd 

She  speaks  eagerly  as  she  enters  the  door).  Mother  —  I'm 
going  to  New  York!  To-night!  I've  got  an  engagement 
with  a  theatrical  company.  I've  been  accepted!  I  met 
the  manager  down  at  the  office.  He  came  in,  mind  you ! 
Mr.  Burns  had  told  him  about  me;  about  my  acting  for 
the  Drama  League.  And  after  a  little  he  offered  me  a  part. 
Thirty  dollars  a  week.  Just  imagine!  And  it's  rather  an 
important  role. 

[She  has  removed  her  hat  and  taken  a  suit  case  from  the  closet 
while  she  finishes. 

MOTHER.     But,  Elsa  —  you  can't  go  away  like  this. 

ELSA  (withdraws  into  herself  at  this,  and  composedly  opens  the 
suit  case).  Why  not? 

MOTHER.     Why,  you  don't  know  the  man. 

ELSA  (decidedly) .  Nonsense.  I'm  not  going  away  with  him. 
[She  takes  a  coat  from  the  closet  and  lays  it  on  the  table  by  the 
bag. 

MOTHER.  But  you  can't  go  away  to  a  strange  city.  Why, 
New  York  is  an  enormous  place.  You'd  be  lost.  You 
have  no  place  to  go. 

ELSA.     I'll  get  a  room  from  the  Y.  W. 

MOTHER.     You  aren't  a  member. 

ELSA  (impatiently).  Well,  what  of  it?  I  guess  they'll  take 
me  in. 


88  THE  CHINA  PIG 

MOTHER.     But,  Elsa,  you  cant  go.    You  can't  go  away  like 

this. 
ELSA  (packing;    politely,  with  forced  patience).     Why  not, 

mother? 
MOTHER.     You're  too  young  and  inexperienced.     You've 

made  no  preparations. 
ELSA  (calmly).     I'm  going,  mother. 
MOTHER.     Your  father  won't  consent.    He  won't  allow  you  to 

go- 

ELSA.     That's  all  the  good  it  will  do  him. 

MOTHER.     You  wouldn't  go  against  his  will? 

ELSA  (politely).  Wouldn't  I?  (Mother  sighs  injuredly  and 
stands  gazing  at  her  beseechingly.  Elsa  looks  up  at  the  sigh. 
Stops  packing  and  breaks  out  impatiently)  Mother, 
here's  the  biggest  thing  that  ever  came  into  my  life.  The 
chance  I've  been  working  toward  for  years;  and  when  it 
comes  to  me,  you  ask  me  to  give  it  up.  I  suppose  you  want 
me  to  be  a  stenographer  all  my  life. 

MOTHER  (breaking  in).    No,  I  don't. 

ELSA  (near  tears  of  annoyance).  Yes,  you  do.  You  stand 
there  and  talk  about  father.  Well,  I  suppose  father  will 
object.  I  expect  him  to.  He'll  storm  around  here  as  he 
always  does,  and  then  sulk  for  a  month.  Well,  I  don't  care. 
Let  him.  I  don't  care  what  he  does.  I  don't  care  if  I 
never  see  him  again ! 

MOTHER  (shocked).     Elsa!    How  can  you  talk  like  that? 

ELSA.  Why  not?  It's  the  truth.  Why  shouldnt  we  be  truth 
ful  once  in  a  while!  What's  the  good  of  all  this  lying  and 
pretending  all  the  time?  You  know  I  don't  care  about 
him.  (After  a  breath,  calmly)  Neither  do  you. 

MOTHER  (pained).    Elsa,  how  can  you  talk  like  that? 

ELSA  (melting).  I'm  sorry,  mother.  (Firing  again)  But  I 
just  can't  help  it.  It  makes  me  wild  when  I  think  of  how  he 
tyrannizes  over  everybody. 

MOTHER  (dutifully).     He's  your  father,  Elsa. 

ELSA.     That's  no  reason  why  he  should  be  disagreeable  to  me. 

MOTHER.     You  don't  understand  him. 


THE  CHINA  PIG 


ELSA.     Oh,  yes,  I  do.     That's  why  I  despise  him. 

MOTHER  (righteously).    Elsa,  you  must  not  talk  like  that. 

ELSA.  Why  not  admit  it,  if  it's  true?  You  don't  care  for  him 
any  more  than  I  do.  Do  you  think  I  don't  know  you?  If 
you  had  money  of  your  own,  you'd  leave  him  to-morrow. 

MOTHER  (dismissing  her).  You  don't  know  what  you  are 
talking  about. 

ELSA.  Don't  I?  (persisting).  Mother,  tell  me  the  truth.  Do 
you  love  father? 

MOTHER.     Why,  of  course  I  do. 

ELSA  (searchingly) .     Honestly?     Do  you  love  him? 

MOTHER  (coldly).     I  don't  care  to  discuss  the  subject. 

ELSA  (looks  at  her  wordlessly  —  what  is  the  use  of  speaking? 
Then  she  does  it).  Why  do  you  stay  with  him?  —  Why 
don't  you  go  away  some  place  by  yourself? 

MOTHER  (arguing) .     Where  could  I  go? 

ELSA.     Why  don't  you  come  to  New  York  with  me? 

MOTHER.  Oh,  Elsa,  don't  talk  like  that.  You  know  it's 
impossible. 

ELSA  (turning  away  gives  it  up,  a  little  contemptuously) .  Yes, 
I  suppose  it  is. 

MOTHER  (upset  by  it  all,  and  hurt  to  the  quick  by  her  contempt, 
breaks  suddenly  through  the  restraint  of  their  relationship). 
Oh,  it's  not  what  you  think.  I'm  not  dead.  You  think 
I  am,  but  I'm  not.  I'm  as  much  alive  as  you  are.  I'm 
more  alive.  Much  more !  I  —  I  want  to  go  to  New  York 
as  you  never  can  want  it.  Until  you've  been  put  off  for 
years  and  years  as  I  have.  (Elsa  is  staring  at  her.  Mother, 
gathering  force).  Oh,  I  know  what  you  think.  You  think 
I'm  old  and  spiritless.  You  think  I'm  going  to  stick  here 
till  I  die.  But  I'm  not.  I'm  going  to  New  York  too.  It 
won't  be  very  long  now,  either.  —  You  think  it's  just  the 
money.  But  I  have  the  money!  I  have  almost  a  thousand 
dollars !  Why  do  you  think  I've  been  wearing  old  shabby 
clothes?  For  fun?  Why,  I  began  saving  before  you  were 
born. 

ELSA.     Mother  — 


90  THE  CHINA  PIG 

MOTHER  (at  the  note  of  sympathy  in  her  voice,  the  mother  halts 
and  stares  at  her,  remembering.  Then,  almost  whispering). 
It's  true. 

ELSA.     I  never  knew. 

MOTHER  (carried  away  by  the  emotion  of  it  all,  she  says  poign 
antly  something  that  means  almost  nothing  —  unless  perhaps 
it  means  a  great  deal).  Sometimes  I  hardly  knew  myself. 

ELSA.     And  all  these  years  —  ? 

MOTHER.     Ever  since  I  was  a  girl.     Look  — 

(She  goes  down  into  the  bottom  drawer  of  the  desk  and  brings 
up  a  little  green  china  bank  in  the  shape  of  a  pig)  My 
grandfather  gave  me  that  china  pig  when  I  was  sixteen, 
and  the  first  thing  I  began  to  save  for  was  a  bicycle.  My 
grandparents  were  old-fashioned;  they  didn't  consider 
a  bicycle- was  ladylike.  But  oh,  how  I  did  want  it!  I've 
wanted  so  many  things  I  couldn't  have.  I  was  just  sup 
posed  to  stay  at  home,  spiel  I  wanted  to  get  out  and  study. 
I  wanted  to  write.  I've  always  wanted  to  write.  Then 
I  began  to  dream  about  college.  I  only  spoke  of  it  once 
at  home.  My  grandfather  was  very  angry.  He  said  it 
wasn't  womanly.  /  couldn't  talk  of  a  career  to  him. 
But  I  made  up  my  mind  I  would  have  it.  I  began  to  save: 
for  the  time  when  I  could  go  away  and  study.  I  saved 
up  two  hundred  dollars.  And  then  grandfather  died  and 
everything  was  just  swallowed  up.  My  money  went  to 
help  pay  the  funeral  expenses.  The  rest  of  it  took  grand 
mother  and  me  to  Pittsburgh,  where  I  got  a  place  in  a 
factory.  Oh,  Elsa  —  how  I  hated  that  factory.  How  I 
hated  all  the  sordidness,  the  petty  jealousies  —  I  couldn't 
stand  it.  My  dreams  were  dying.  I  was  too  tired  to 
dream.  (She  looks  down  at  the  little  green  bank.  She  is 
speaking  in  a  monotone  now,  jerkily)  So  I  began  saving 
again,  It  meant  more  than  just  studying  now.  It  meant 
freedom,  living.  —  And  then  my  grandmother  died,  and  the 
money  went  again.  But  I  started  in  again.  Mjt^ex- 
iprnfrr"  Tirrrr  Innrrnorr  I  saved  one  hundred  and  six  dollars 
in  ten  months.  It  wasn't  very  much.  But  I  meant, 


THE  CHINA  PIG  91 

when  I  had  five  hundred,  to  go  to  New  York.  To  Colum 
bia  University.  All  I  was  working  for  was  one  year  of 
college.  I  don't  know  what  I  thought  I'd  do  after  I  got 
it.  1  suppose  I  believed  I  could  write  at  once  and  support 
myself  that  way.  Then  I  met  your  father.  He  was  just 
a  young  lawyer*  He  was  different  then;  more  gentle  and 
thoughtful.  The  first  thing  I  knew,  I  told  him  what  I 

was  saving  for.     WeH he,1 -he,  eiit'UUmgeff '  wfi. "  Me  gut 

ra£_jaiglit  work  to  do.  And  I  —  we — -well,  one  day  he 
proposed  to  me.  And  he  promised,  if  I'd  marry  him,  that 
I  should  have  my  year  of  college  anyway.  As  soon  as  we 
could  save  the  money,  J*W\to  g°-  J&ut  when  the  time 
came  you  were  here,  and  most  of  the  money  went  for  you. 
(More  intensely)  You  say  I  don't  understand  your  want 
ing  to  go?  Why,  I  gave  you  that  longing.  I  lived  it  into 
your  little  body  before  you  were  born.  And  you  think 
it's  odd  that  Muriel  wants  to  go  to  the  East?  How  can  she 
help  it?  I've  wanted  to  explore  all  my  life.  I've  dreamed 
of  strange  places,  new  environments.  I  I  if  a 
stremge-ma« -bad-t?onre- to  me  — ' and  offered  lu  lake  me 
all  those  places,  I'd  have  gone.  Not  loving  him.  I'd 
have  left  my  home  and  gone.  But  no  one  ever  came. 
I've  just  been  chained  here  all  these  years. 
ELSA.  But,  mother  —  why  didn't  you  go? 

MOTHER.      HOW  COuld  I? 

ELSA.     Did  you  give  it  up  then? 

MOTHER.     No.     I  meant  to  go  when  you  were  older.     Yeuc, 
aunt  could  have  stayed  with  you.     Your  —  your  father 
knew  it.     He  never  said-, much  then,  but  he  thought  I 
ought  to  give  it  up.     One  time  —  yorr  •were'TilKnit ' six  — 
he  had  a  chance  to  get  in  on  a  good  business  deal ;  and  he 
asked  me  to  lend  him  the  money.     I  had  meant. to  go4bat 
sumnaer-^-and  he  knew  it;  but  he  said  I  might  get  it  back 
in  time.    I  di'luuU    I  never  got  it  back.    H^soijdda'JL^pajDe 
it  at  first,  .  .id  afterwards  —  it  made  him  angry  when  I 
spoke~of4te*x  And  the  next  money  I  saved  — 
member  th.xt  year  when  you  got  into  so  muck 


- 
92  THE  CHINA  PIG 

school?  I  had  wanted  to  send  you  away  for  a  while. 
You  needed  a  change.  But  he  couldn't  afford  it.  He 
said  you  needed  a  strong  hand. 

ELSA.     But  I  did  go  away. 

MOTHER.  Yes.  I  sent  you.  I  had  forty  dollars  then. 
But  I  think  I  hated  him  then,  i',1  think  I've  hated  him 
ever  since.  When  you  were  sixteen  he  made  a  lot  of 
money.  (Her  voice  becomes  lower  now,  hard  and  even)  And 
I  stole  six  hundred  dollars.  He  never  knew.  He  never 
even  missed  it.  I  changed  the  accounts.  And  then  when 
he  failed  I  never  said  a  word.  I  sat  there,[  as  hard  as 
steelTjand  watched  him  worry  over  those  bills.  I  sat  there 
and  thought  about  college.  I  have  over  a  thousand  dol 
lars  now. 

ELSA.     Mother,  you're  splendid  — 

MOTHER.  No,  I'm  not.  Sometimes  I  forget  all  about  it. 
I  Sometimes  I  think  it's  no  use.  \  I've  had  to  give  it  up  all 
my  life.  Perhaps  just  in  giving  the  desire  to  you  and 
Muriel  I've  fulfilled  my  mission. 

fiS^^J^nat  nonsense]  • 

MOTHER  (unhappily).  It's  only  occasionally  that  I  think 
of  it  now.  Perhaps  when  the  time  comes  I  won't  have  the 
courage  to  break  away.  (I'm  too  old.  (Despairingly  sink 
ing  into  chair  at  table)  Oh,  I  am  too  old.  I  simply  can't 
bear  to  admit  it/} 

ELSA  (suddenly)  .  Mothej  —  come  to  New  York  with  me. 
[You're  not  too  old,  yetjs  Break  away  to-day.  You  have 
the  money.  '.What  are  you  waiting  for?  /  There's  nothing 
to  keep  you  now. 

MOTHER.     Muriel  — 

ELSA.  Muriel  doesn't  need  you.  She's  a  woman  herself. 
(Mother  stares  at  her)  You  said  you  didn't  want  me  to  go 
alone.  Come  along  and  take  care  of  me. 

MOTHER.     You  don't  need  me,  either. 


ELS  AT  r*want  you;  Can't  you  see?  I  it  splendid? 
We've  neither  of  us  lived  yet.  We've  bot  i  been  waiting 
and  hoping.  Now  our  chance  has  come.  Let's  take  it 


THE  CHINA  PIG 


together.  What  wonderful  chums  we  could  be  now. 
Can't  you  see  it?  Oh,  think  of  New  York!  The  lights, 
and  the  big  streets.  It  means  Fifth  Avenue,  and  the 
Metropolitan  Museum,  and  Broadway  and  the  opera,  and 
the  shops  and  the  theatres.  All  the  theatres. 

MOTHER.  And  the  Statue  of  Liberty.  I've  always  wanted 
to  see  that.  . 

ELSA.  Mother — (^won't  you  come?J  (They  stare  at  each 
other.  There  are  tears  in  the  Mother's  eyes.  Elsa  takes  her 
in  her  arms.  Then,  releasing  her)  You  will  come,  won't 
you?  And  you  have  the  money.  Can't  you  get  it  to-day? 
It  isn't  three  yet.  —  Go  down  to  the  bank  and  draw  it  all 
out.  Let's  take  it  with  us.  [They  are  tense  with  excite- 


MOTHER  (breathlessly).  Yes.  [Goes  to  the  closet  for  her  old  hat 
andt  coaU 

ELSA     (sees  the  hatbox).     No,  wear  your  new  hat.  j  (She  puts 
f—~  it  on  her)     I'll  pack  your  things  for  you.     Now,  hurry  - 
f  MOTHER  (turning^  at  the  door^  and  coming  back).     Oh,  my 
check  book  — 
[She  is  getting  iffrom  her  desk  when  Muriel  enters. 

MURIEL  (is  just  recovering  from  a  tempestuous  scene  in  which 
she  has  been  very  angry.  Her  face  is  still  set  in  fierce  deter 
mined  lines.  She  sees  her  mother  and  the  girl  in  her  calls  out) 
Mother  —  (Then  the  woman  in  her  comes  to  the  fore.  She 
speaks  briefly)  I'm  going  away.  Father  won't  let  me 
study.  He  won't  give  me  the  money.  So  I'm  going 
away  somewhere  and  make  it  for  myself. 

MOTHER.     But  where  will  you  go,  Muriel? 

MURIEL.  Oh,  I  don't  know.  Out  West  ^somewhere.  Or 
just  in  this  city.  I  only  know  I'm  going.  He  wants  me 
to  stay  in  a  musty  little  office  all  my  life  and  help  him. 
But  I  won't  do  it.  If  he  won't  help  me,  I'll  do  it  myself. 
I'm  going  to  be  a  foreign  missionary  if  it  costs  me  my  life. 

Li- 

[She  breaks  off. 
MOTHER  (staring  rt  her  piteously) .     But  Muriel  — 


94  THE  CHINA  PIG 

MUEIEL.     It's   all   right,   mother.    }  Don't   you   worry.     I'll 
get  through  all  right.     (Breaking)     But  it  would  have 
been  such  a  wonderful  chance.     To  go  with  her  next 
year. 
[She  stares  stiffly. 

MOTHER  (unwillingly).     How  —  how  much  would  it  cost? 

MURIEL.     Only  about  two  thousand. 

MOTHER.     Would  a  thousand  do? 

MURIEL.     I  don't  know.     Why? 

MOTHER  (quietly).     I  can  give  you  a  thousand. 

MURIEL.  /  You?  J 

MOTHER.     I've  been  saving  it  for  quite  a  while. 

MURIEL.  Oh,  do  you  mean  it?  1*3  pay  it  back.  Oh, 
motherjcould  you?  oA 

ELSA.   JMother  — ^ 

MOTHER  (waving  her  aside).  Here.  I  have  my  check  book. 
I'll  write  you  out  a  check.;  You  can  cash  it  right  away. 

MURIEL  (while  she  is  writing  it).{j9h,  mother.  I  can't  believe 
it.  It  means  so  much  to  me.  You  can  never  understand 
how  much  it  means.^J 

MOTHER  (not  answering  that).  (There!  You  can  cash  it 
to-day  if  you  hurry. 

MURIEL  (putting  her  young  arms  about  her,  kisses  h$r  quickly 
on  the  cheek).  Oh,  mother!  I  do  thank  you.  •  You  wait 
—  I'll  do  something  for  you  some  day. 

MOTHER  (hurrying  her  unobtrusively).  It's  all  right,  Muriel. 
Just  be  good;  that's  all  I  ask.  (Muriel  kisses  her  again  and 
starts  out  eagerly  as  she  crosses  the  sill).  Hurry  - 
(She  is  gone,  slamming  the  door  behind  her.  The  mother 
stands  silent  a  moment.  Then,  slowly  she  begins  to  take  off 
her  hat.  Elsa,  who  has  not  moved,  stands  watching  her. 
Elsa  believes  in  not  interfering.  Mother  puts  the  hat  back 
in  the  box.  Then  slowly  she  sinks  into  the  chair,  left  of  table. 
Elsa  is  back,  right  of  table.  She  twists  her  hands  nervously. 
Then  she  looks  at  Elsa  and  looks  away  again) 
What  could  I  do?  I  hadn't  any  choice.  It  was  her  life 
or  mine.  I  couldn't  have  gone  when  ii,  kept  her  back. 


THE  CHINA  PIG  95 

I  couldn't  —  It's  been  the  same  thing  all  my  life.     Every 

time  I've  had  to  give  it  up. 
ELSA.  Come  anyway,  mother. 
MOTHER.  I  can't. 


ELSA.     Yes,  you  can ! 

MOTHER.  No.  (Resigned))  No;  I've  made  my  choice.  Oh, 
it  wasn't  any  choice.  I've  never  had  any.  Every  time 
it's  been  the  same,  i  Every  time.  It  can't  be  right.  ^Jt 
can't  be.  -J-  And_yet,"rt  wouldn't  have  been  right  to  go.  I 
had  to,  do  it.  Jit  must  have  been  rightjj'  Wasn't  it  right, 
Elsa?  Why  do  you  look  so  hard?/ 

KLSA  (slowly),  i  I  don't  know  — 
r  MOTHER.     The  "Bible  says  so. 

ELSA  (sure  of  this).  I  can't  quote  Bible  verses  to  you.  But 
I  know  this  —  that  a  man's  first  duty  is  self -development. 

MOTHER.  Self -development?  No.  It  can't  be,  Elsa.  There 
are  other  things. 

ELSA  (passionately).     It  is.     It  is. 

MOTHER.     Tlhfcfr  you  think  I  should  have  gone?     At  the 

expense  of  Muriel's  development? 
VELSA.  ^Jr€ft»%-dc(iidc  foi "ytfuT   f 

MOTHER,     Wh:  it  woi  J !  •  y  on  ! .  a v  e  d one  ? 

ELSA.  ( I  don't  know>  j     _.JU.  ....„  -lr    .._.-.„  .,-..tolJW.«j  ;WIJ — 

MOTHER.  You'd  have  done  the  same  thing.  cEvery  time 
you'd  have  done  it.jf  And  every  time  I've  had  to.  All 
my  life.  (Tears  in  her  voice)  I've  dreamed  and  dreamed. 
I've  saved  and  saved  until  my  heart  was  sick.  And  still 
I've  kept  on;  £  saving  and  planning.  J  And  every  time 
when  it  was  within  my  reach  I've  had  to  give  it  up.  I 
don't  believe  I  was  ever  meant  to  go.£  I  might  just  as  well 
believe  it.  It's  just  been  a  game  TVe  been  deluding 
myself  with  'all  these  years.  yThis  little  china  pig  —  (She 
snatches  it  from  the  table  analifts  it  high  above  her  head  to 
dash  it  to  the  floor)  I'm  going  to  break  it!  (Then  quickly 
she  stops)  No!  I  won't!  ! I  won't  give  in !  I  won't!  I'm 
going  on.  J  I'm  going  to  st£rt  all  over  again.  I  won't  give 
in!  I  won't! 


96  THE  CHINA  PIG 

ELSA.     (gladly) .     You9 II  come? 

MOTHER.  No.  I'm  going  to  stay  right  here.  I'm  going  to 
save  again.  (Big)  And  this  time  I'm  going  to  go! 

ELSA  (turns  away  wordlessly.  Then  she  faces  her  again,  and 
as  she  speaks  the  truth  of  what  she  is  saying  dawns  on  her). 
I  wish  you  had  broken  it.  I  wish  yjpu  had  smashed  it  to 
bits.  Why  do  you  wait  for  that?  Why  do  you?  J  That's 
been  the  trouble  all  along.  All  your  life  you've  been 
wanting  to  grow.  All  your  life.  And  every  time  you 
started,  some  other  thing  came  and  held  you  back.  I 
don't  say  you  were  right  in  giving  up  the  money.  I  don't 
say  you  were  wrong,  feut  why  did  you  let  it  stop  you? 
You  had  no  right  to  do  that.  It's  as  if,  each  time  you 
found  yourself  a  stepping  stone,  some  one  else  needed  it, 
and  you  gave  it  up.  But  why  did  you  wait  to  get  another? 
Why  didn't  you  wade  across? 

MOTHER.     What  do  you  mean? 

ELSA  (more  confidently  now).  You  asked  me  if  you  were 
right  in  giving  up  the  money.  And  I  say  —  it  didn't 
matter.  :  Whether  you  used  it  and  went,  or  whether  you 
gave  it  and  stayed  here.  /  What  does  matter  is  that  you've 
waited  to  save  again.  Don't  you  see?  All  your  life 
you've  been  waiting  and  saving  for  an  opportunity  - 
when  you  should  have  been  going  on  without  it. 

MOTHER.     But  I  couldn't  — 

ELSA.  Yes,  you  could.  v  You  can  now.  What  have  you 
done  with  your  life?  ,  Saved.  Saved  money.  When  you 
should  have  been  studying,  working  at  home.  When  you 
should  have  been  writing.  Have  you  ever  written  any 
thing?  No.  You've  been  waiting  to  learn.  Well,  why 
didn't  you  teach  yourself?  ;  Don't  you  sec?  These  years 
have  been  wasted;  wasted  in  dreams.  It  didn't  matter 
where  you  were.  It  didn't  matter  how  busy.  You  could 
have  grown  somehow  if  you'd  tried.  But  you've  just 
saved. 

MOTHER  (realizing  it).  I've  just  saved.  (Slowly)  Saved 
and  dreamed,  instead  of  going  ahead.  You  didn't  do 


THE  CHINA  PIG  97 

that.     You've  been  working  for  years;    getting  ready. 

Now,  I've  let  my  years  slip  by  —  and  it's  too  late. 
ELSA.  Ijtfo,  it's  not,  mother. 
MOTHER.     Yes  it  is.     No  one  else  has  been  to  blame.     It 

hasn't  even  been  circumstance.     It's  just  been  me.     (After 

a  time)    A  new  environment  would  have  helped  — 
ELSA.     Yes. 
MOTHER.     But  it  wasn't  necessary.     I  see  it  now.     I  see  it 

all.     Now  that  it  doesn't  matter.     Now  that  I'm  too  old. 
ELSA.     You're  not  too  old,  mother^  It's  never  too  late  if 

you  can  see  i{ ,  "~~ 

MOTHER.     Do  you  believe  that? 
ELSA.     I  do.     I  do.     Nothing  matters,  if  you  can  see. 
MOTHER  (deciding).     Then  I'm  going  to  begin. 
ELSA.     You'll  come  with  me? 
MOTHER.     No.     I'm  going  to  do  it  here. 
ELSA.  —  Are  you  afraid  to  go? 
MOTHER.     No.     But  I  have  no  money.     I'd  hamper  you. 

And  besides  — I  don't  need  it  now.JUi'  /u«k*n- 

*%*v*»|4vsA*t 

ELSA.     Oh,  mother! 

[She  is  not  demonstrative,  but  she  comes  close  to  her  and  looks 

into  her  face. 
MOTHER  (wistfully) .   Elsa  —  even  it  it's  too  late  for  writing  — 

I  can  live. 

CURTAIN 


A  PATRONESS 
:      EVER  YOUNG 

ALICE  GERSTENBERG 

ALICE  GERSTENBERG  was  born  in  Chicago  and  was  edu 
cated  there  and  at  Bryn  Mawr  College.  She  is  the  author 
of  two  novels,  "Unquenched  Fire"  (1912)  and  "The  Con 
science  of  Sarah  Platt"  (1915),  and  has  dramatized  Lewis 
Carroll's  "Alice  in  Wonderland." 

Miss  Gerstenberg  is  best  known  for  her  contributions  to 
the  little  theatre.  Her  plays  have  been  collected  in  one 
volume  under  the  title  "Ten  One-act  Plays"  (1921).  The 
two  plays  from  her  pen  appearing  in  this  volume  are  not  in 
cluded  in  that  collection. 


A  PATRONESS 

A  MONOLOGUE  IN  ONE  ACT 


BY  ALICE  GERSTENBERG 


Character 
THE  PATRONESS    .     .     '.     .     .     .     .A  Society  Woman 


COPTBIGHT,  1917,  BY  ALICE  GEBSTENBEBO. 

All  rights  reserved 

No  performance  of  this  play,  either  amateur  or  professional,  may  be  given  except  by 
special  arrangement  with  the  author's  representative,  Mr.  Norman  Lee  Swartout,  Sum 
mit,  N.  J. 


A  PATRONESS 

(The  Patroness  is  a  society  woman  with  much  natural 
charm  and  some  ability.  In  pantomime  she  pretends  to  sit 
up  in  the  bed  as  she  wakes  in  the  morning,  and  yawns) 

Oh,  must  I  get  up?    Is  it  another  day?    What,  Annie?    My 
committee  meeting!    To  be  sure! 
(She  hurries  out  of  bed  and  disappears  behind  a  screen) 

Where's  my  rubber  cap?    It  has  a  hole.    The  water  will  ruin 
my  marcel.     John  always  turns  off  this  shower  knob  so 
tight !    I  wonder  if  the  water's  cold.     (She  shrieks)     Now 
my  clothes. 
(She  looks  over  the  screen  and  talks  to  her  small  daughter) 

Yes,  Dorothy,  mother's  here.     Are  you  ready  for  school? 
You  want  another  party  dress?     You  are  going  to  far  too 
many  parties.     No,  I  won't  promise  anything  until  I  have 
consulted  other  mothers  at  a  Parents'  meeting.        / 
(To  her  small  son,  who  is  supposed  to  have  entered) 

What,  Jimmie?     Buy  out  the  puppets  for  your  birthday? 
Ask  your  Daddy!    All  my  money's  gone  to  charity.    But 
I  love  you  dearly.    There's  a  kiss  for  you. 
(Throws  kiss  to  him) 

But,  son,  look  at  your  hair —  Oh,  Mademoiselle,  voyez!  II 
faut  que  vous —  Oh,  I  can't  talk  French  and  rush  too! 
Take  him  to  the  barber's !  Oui,  oui,  good-by  dears,  learn 
your  lessons  well  —  look  out  for  Annie's  tray ! 
(She  comes  from  behind  screen  presumably  wearing  a  dress 
ing  gown  and  sits  down  before  her  breakfast  tray) 

There's  nothing  so  refreshing  as  orange  juice!  Oh,  and  the 
smell  of  coffee!  No  pancakes,  Annie,  I  simply  mustn't  lose 
my  figure. 

(As  she  eats  she  reads  the  morning  paper  which  came  up  with 
the  tray) 


104  A  PATRONESS 


What's  the  world  been  doing  overnight?  Another  robbery! 
Horrible! 

(Casually  to  her  husband  and  without  looking  at  him  as  he  is 
supposed  to  enter  the  room.) 

Hello,  John! 

(She  turns  her  cheek  absent-mindedly  for  his  kiss  and  puts 
out  her  foot  for  Annie) 

Annie,  my  spats.  What's  Society  doing  to-day?  Mrs. 
Weather  gives  tea;  I'm  going  to  that.  Mrs.  Hemming 
gives  luncheon;  I'm  going  to  that.  Mrs.  Murray  gives 
dinner;  we're  going  to  that.  Do  get  home  early,  John,  and 
send  the  car  right  back  for  me  this  morning.  I've  many 
important  engagements.  Good-by.  What? 
(Takes  letters  from  him  with  nonchalant  amazement) 

Bills  to  O  K?  Very  well,  as  soon  as  I  have  time.  I  didnt 
let  them  lie  around  last  month.  Don't  be  so  particular! 
They  know  you're  good  for  it.  I  can't  stop  in  the  midst 
of  writing  a  paper  for  the  Woman's  Club  to  attend  to  bills. 
My  paper  went  off  well  too.  You  ought  to  be  proud  of 
that.  Yes,  yes,  yes,  I'll  look  them  over.  Annie,  my  blue 
serge;  good  morning,  Miss  Perkins,  —  sit  there  while  I 
dress  my  hair. 
(She  sits  before  a  table  and  in  pantomime  arranges  her  hair.) 

Look  these  bills  over  to-day,  Miss  Perkins,  and  O  K  them 
if  you  can.  Just  open  my  letters. 

(She  reads  letters  with  eyes  cocked  sideways  as  she  continues 
to  dress  her  hair  and  make  up  her  cheeks  and  lips) 

Regret.  Accept.  Accept.  No,  no,  regret,  I  couldn't  be 
seen  in  her  house.  Here's  a  list  of  names  to  be  approached 
for  donations  for  the  bazaar.  Make  copies  of  the  letter  I 
outlined  yesterday  and  send  them  to  these  people.  And 
just  take  this  dictation.  "My  dear  Sister:  It  is  a  long 
time  since  your  letter  arrived,  but  this  is  a  big  city  and  we 
are  at  the  height  of  the  season.  I  have  been  patroness 
for  countless  affairs  and  am  serving  on  every  committee. 
I  am  one  of  the  women  in  this  city  who  run  things,  who  do 
things,  who  start  things,  who  manage  things,  but,  thank 


A  PATRONESS  105 


Heaven,  we  do  not  always  finish  things;  we  leave  that  to 
the  climbers  after  we  have  taken  the  glory.    You  must 
come  — 
(She  starts) 

Oh,  that  telephone!    Finish  the  letter  to  my  sister  yourself, 
Miss  Perkins. 
(She  crosses  room  to  answer  telephone) 

Good  morning,  Mrs.  Hitchcock.  You  mean  the  voting  at 
the  Club?  Yes,  I  think  it  was  parliamentary.  I  am  so 
sorry  you  lost  out.  (While  she  is  at  the  telephone  she  whis 
pers  orders  to  her  servants).  Annie,  my  gloves.  Don't  for 
get  to  give  me  a  handkerchief.  No,  Sarah,  not  at  home 
for  luncheon.  But  tell  cook  to  plan  a  dinner  for  sixteen 
to-morrow  night.  Yes,  I'm  listening,  Mrs.  Hitchcock. 
Miss  Perkins,  you'd  better  plan  the  table  decorations  with 
Henderson.  He's  the  best  butler  we've  ever  had  for  ar 
ranging  flowers.  Yes,  Mrs.  Hitchcock,  I'll  be  glad  to  take 
the  matter  up  with  the  Board.  I'm  far  too  good  a  friend 
of  yours.  Don't  mention  it,  my  dear. 
(She  bangs  up  the  receiver) 

I  thought  she'd  never  get  through.  Now,  Annie,  my  dress! 
As  late  as  that!  Out  of  my  way,  everybody!  Don't  ask 
any  more  questions.  Do  the  best  you  can.  I'll  be  back  at 
six. 

(She  grabs  hat,  gloves,  bag,  and  starts  out,  almost  bumping 
into  a  nurse  with  a  baby  in  her  arms) 

Oh,  Hannah,  how's  the  baby?     Mother's  pet!     Coo,  coo, 
darling!    Laugh  at  your  sweet   motherkins,   sweetheart  1  v 
That's  the  dear!     By-by! 

(She  turns,  uses  same  stage  space  but  gives  in  pantomime 
the  impression  that  she  runs  down  a  winding  flight  of  stairs, 
nods  to  a  butler) 

Morning,  Henderson. 

(She  goes  out  of  the  house  to  her  automobile) 

Morning,  Jameson;  to  the  Woman's  Club  as  fast  as  you  can. 
(As  soon  as  she  is  seated  in  the  car  she  takes  a  book  out  of  one 
of  its  pockets  and  studies  French) 


106  A  PATRONESS 


Vous  avez  beau  dire,  vous  avez  tort,  say  what  you  may  you 
are  wrong.    //  a  beau  dire,  je  ne  le  crois  pas.    Let  him  say 
what  he  may,  I  do  not  believe  him.     Good  morning. 
(She  bows  out  of  the  car  window) 

Je  ne  le  crois  pas,  je  ne  le  crois  pas  — 

(Her  face  distorts  with  fear  as  another  automobile  drives  too 
closely) 

Oh,  why  do  they  drive  so  near;  be  careful,  Jameson.  //  a 
beau  dire,  je  ne  le  crois  pas  —  Oh,  here  we  are  — 
(She  places  the  book  back  into  the  car  pocket  and  hurries  out. 
She  enters  a  building,  slips  into  a  crowded  elevator,  looks  at 
herself  in  its  mirror,  screws  up  her  face  as  she  adjusts  her 
veil) 

Seventh,  please. 

(She  hurries  out  of  the  elevator  and  enters  the  Club) 

Sorry  to  be  so  late.  In  time  for  what  —  to  come  to  the  plat 
form  —  in  favor  of  prison  reform?  Certainly,  if  you  will 
accept  merely  extemporaneous  remarks. 

*  (She  steps  upon  the  platform  and  speaks  fluently) 

Members  of  the  Woman's  Club,  let  us  make  a  country-wide 
investigation  of  the  expenditure  made  by  our  Government 
for  the  upkeep  of  prisons.  Then  let  us  prove  that  the  same 
amount  could  be  invested  more  profitably  in  farms  where 
delinquents  under  guard  could  work  in  the  open  air  and 
grow  into  more  normal  health.  The  sciences  of  physiology 
and  psychology  should  be  applied  to  criminals!  We  must 
enlist  the  services  of  our  foremost  educators.  A  reform 
so  sweeping  must  be  rightly  started.  I  pledge  myself  to 
approach  Doctors  Maynard,  Hill,  Casper.  Any  suggestion 
from  the  floor?  Yes,  Mrs.  Danby?  Quite  so.  Next 
Wednesday  here  at  this  hour.  Adjournment,  Madam 
President?  How  do  you  do,  how  do  you  do  — 
(She  shakes  hands  cordially  with  the  women  who  crowd 
around  to  greet  her.  Then  she  hastily  retreats) 

So  glad  to  see  you,  tell  me  more  about  it  next  time;  I  have 
to  hurry  to  keep  an  appointment  at  Geraldine's. 
(She  rushes  out  of  the  room,  calling  to  the  elevator  man) 


A  PATRONESS 


107 


Down,  down,  down! 

(She  slips  into  the  elevator,  rides  to  the  first  floor,  goes  to  auto 
mobile;  she  is  impatient  when  Jameson  is  delayed  by  the 
traffic) 

Jameson,  to  Geraldine's. 

(When  seated  in  the  car  she  takes  a  book  from  another  pocket 
of  the  limousine  and  begins  to  study  Spanish  with  a  far-away 
look) 

Cierto  lugareno  estaba  a  punto  de  morir.    Oh,  I  like  Spanish. 
No  era  muy  rico.     Solo  tenia  un  perro  y  un  caballo.     No 
tenio  hijos  pero  tenia  hi  una  mujer. 
(She  alights  from  car) 

Wait,  Jameson. 

(She  hurries  up  the  stairs  of  a  house,  opens  the  door  and  walks 
right  in) 

Good  morning,  I  haven't  much  time.  Can  you  hurry  my 
gown?  Shall  I  take  this  room?  Hello,  Ursula,  just  had  a 
fitting?  (In  whisper)  Are  you  satisfied?  Do  you  think 
Geraldine's  the  best  in  town?  She's  made  mistakes  for  me 
too,  but  then  they  all  do.  Glad  to  have  seen  you. 
(She  steps  into  room) 

Morning,  Madam,  are  you  sure  this  is  going  to  be  the  rage 
down  south?  It's  difficult  to  have  a  summer  spirit  with 
snow  outside.  Really,  two  hundred  and  a  quarter  is  out 
rageous  for  this  wisp  of  chiffon.  I'm  doing  so  much  for 
charity,  Madam,  and  I  need  so  many  clothes  for  the  South. 

>Are  you  showing  sport  hats? 
(She  criticizes  the  length  of  the  skirt  in  the  mirror) 
Too  long?  Are  they?  Well,  if  you  say  so,  but  it's  ugly. 
Smart,  you  think?  Well,  maybe;  I  suppose  it  is.  I  know, 
I  just  have  to  carry  it  off  with  the  air  that  it's  smart! 
What's  that,  Stella?  A  hat?  The  new  shape?  You  call  it 
the  casserole?  Oh,  it's  awful  on  me!  Much  more  suitable 
for  chorus  squabs.  What  time  is  it?  Oh,  I'm  late  for  Mrs. 
Hemming's  luncheon.  Just  put  a  pin  in  there.  That's  it, 
now  help  me  out.  And  into  my  dress  —  another  hook 
there,  Stella.  Next  Tuesday?  I'll  try  to  make  it  by  nine. 


108  A  PATRONESS 


(She  hurries  out  of  the  house,  down  the  stairs  to  the  curb) 

Mrs.  Hemming's,  347  Boulevard. 

(She  enters  car;  from  its  vanity  case  she  takes  powder,  rouge, 
etc.,  to  freshen  herself,  and  from  her  bag  a  clean  pair  of  gloves.) 

Take  care,  Jameson.    (She  speaks  through  the  tube)    You  lack 
calculation ! 
(She  watches  his  progress  with  anxiety.    She  alights) 

Get  your  luncheon  and  come  back  immediately. 

(She  enters  house  quickly,  where  a  butler  has  been  watching 
for  her.    She  quickly  lets  him  take  her  coat) 

No,  I'll  not  go  upstairs.    I  suppose  I  am  the  last  one. 
(She  turns  to  the  left  to  enter  the  drawing-room) 

How  do  you  do,  Mrs.  Hemming?  Waiting  for  me?  So  sorry? 
(She  leads  guests  with  hostess  into  the  dining  room.  She 
takes  her  place  at  the  table  and  in  pantomime  unfolds  napkin 
and  begins  to  eat  fruit  cocktail  out  of  a  tall  glass) 

Charming  to  be  placed  at  your  right,  dear  hostess.  Now  for 
a  powwow  over  the  bazaar.  What  are  you  collecting  for 
your  Arabian  Booth?  I  have  fifteen  debutantes  to  look 
pretty  at  my  French  counters.  I  chose  French  because 
I  am  so  well  acquainted  with  the  language  and  it's  all  so 
chic.  Oui,  oui! 

(She  is  served  a  roll  and  eaU  chicken  and  mushrooms  under 
glass) 

By  the  way,  I've  a  book  of  chances  —  no,  excuse  me,  I  mean 
shares;  not  at  all  the  same  thing.  On  a  diamond  bracelet. 
A  dollar  a  share.  Not  one  of  you  shall  escape.  What 
numbers  will  you  take,  Clara?  Anywhere  I  open  the  book? 
There,  49,  thanks!  And  you,  Evelyn?  Oh,  my  dear,  you 
must!  Yes,  I'll  take  a  chance  from  you  in  return —  share, 
I  mean  —  on  your  ice-box,  although  goodness  knows  what 
I'd  do  with  it  if  I  did  win  it.  Let's  give  each  other  23. 
(She  serves  herself  to  salad) 

Just  send  the  book  around,  Mrs.  Crosby,  and  don't  dare  to 
return  it  unfilled.  That's  what  a  bazaar  is  for,  to  force  out 
of  our  pockets  what  we  don't  want  to  give.  What  delicious 
salad!  Your  own  cook?  What  a  time  most  of  us  have 


A  PATRONESS  109 


acquiring  cooks!  Let's  start  a  Cuisine  Club  for  discussing 
the  most  scientific  ways  of  keeping  house.  When  shall  we 
start  it?  My  secretary  can  issue  the  cards  calling  a  meet 
ing  at  my  house.  Done !  We  were  at  the  theater  last  night, 
but  truly  we  must  uplift  the  Drama.  I'm  writing  a  play 
myself.  Oh,  my  share  book! 
(She  accepts  the  book  returned  to  her) 

Not  a  delinquent  at  the  table.  Nobly  done!  Now,  dear 
hostess,  while  you  are  eating  your  ice  cream — I'm  on  a  diet 
and  don't  take  any  —  will  you  excuse  me  if  I  slip  away?  I 
promised  to  appear  at  Mr.  Pole's  lecture  on  feminism; 
I'm  one  of  the  patronesses  —  you  know  how  it  is.  Are  you 
going  too,  Mrs.  Crosby?  Glad  to  take  you  in  my  car.  You 
too,  Mrs.  Winthrop?  Any  one  else;  my  car  holds  six.  I 
hope  I'm  not  breaking  up  the  party.  Such  an  enchanting 
luncheon!  Good-by,  dear  hostess;  come,  girls. 
(She  leads  the  women  out  to  her  car) 

Jameson,  the  Ritz. 

(She  makes  the  women  comfortable  in  the  car) 

Are  you  comfortable  there,  Mrs.  Wright?  You  should  have 
taken  the  back  seat.  Do  you  want  the  robe?  No,  it  wasn't 
dreadful  to  hurry  away.  One  can't  give  more  time  than 
that  for  luncheon,  and  our  hostess,  no  doubt,  was  relieved 
not  having  to  entertain  us  longer.  One  feels  so  helpless 
when  there  are  no  more  courses.  My  dear  Grace,  where 
did  you  get  that  fetching  veil?  And  hasn't  Mrs.  Clinch  a 
stunning  bag?  Made  it  yourself?  Make  me  one.  Put 
it  into  Mrs.  Canter's  booth  and  I'll  come  and  buy  it. 
That's  the  way  to  shop.  My  religion  is  economy  in  time 
and  effort.  Here  we  are. 
(She  alights  from  car  and  enters  the  hotel.  She  steps  back) 

Just  a  moment.    Let's  go  next  door  and  see  the  new  portrait 
exhibit.    How  do  you  do,  Mr.  Dale?    Fine  collection,  so  I 
was  told. 
(She  stands  off  and  looks  at  pictures) 

I  like  that  one.    Don't  know  why.    I  just  know  how  it  makes 
me  feel.    And  that  one — hasn't  it  color?    And  such  perspec- 


110  A  PATRONESS 


live !     That  background  —  so  unusual.     And  this  —  what 

technique.    I  must  come  in  again  at  leisure  for  a  real  long 

look.    We're  on  our  way  to  a  lecture.    Good-day,  Mr.  Dale. 

(She  hurries  out  wi.th  her  friends) 
Glad  we  had  a  peek  at  the  portraits  —  something  to  talk  about 

to-night  at  dinner;   sometimes  it's  difficult  to  know  what 

to  say. 

(As  she  enters  the  hotel  ballroom  where  the  lecture  is  being 

given) 
May  we  sit  in  the  last  row?    Don't  wish  to  remove  our  hats. 

Has  he  been  talking  long?    Missed  half  of  it  ?    What  a  pity ! 

(She  pantomimes  her  attention  to  the  lecturer,  her  reactions  of 

interest,  amusement,  agreement,  doubt.     Finally  she  rises 

and  whispers) 
Girls,  you  don't  mind  if  I  leave  you.    He's  very  clever,  but 

now  that  I  know  his  point  of  view,  I  can  tell  in  advance 

what  he  is  going  to  say  and  I  really  must  go  on  my  way.    So 

glad  to  have  seen  you.    Never  mind  moving,  Grace,  I'm 

not  too  fat;  I  can  just  slide  by  you. 

(She  pushes  her  way  out  and  hurries  to  the  street) 
Jameson,  as  fast  as  you  can  to  Mrs.  Weather's. 

(She  hurries  into  the  car  and  takes  calling  cards  from  her 

purse) 
Cards  —  let  me  see  —  what  did  the  invitation  say  —  three, 

I  think  —  one,  two,  three  —      Jameson,  I'll  get  right  out 

here;  never  mind  driving  up  to  the  awning.    Hello,  hello, 

Mary! 

(She  jumps  from  car  and  runs  to  meet  a  friend) 
Just  the  person  I  want  to  see.    What  do  you  mean  by  not 

taking  an  opera  box  this  season?    WTiere's  your  civic  pride? 

Oh,  I  won't  take  "no"!    I  know  it,  I  have  a  frightful  time 

myself  filling  it  every  week  —  with  handsome  people  — 

but  —  I'll  tell  them  you've  changed  your  mind  —  good 

for  you  —  I  said  you  would  — 

(She  has  walked  up  the  stairs  of  the  house  with  Mary  and  now 

enters) 
Announce  me  right  away,  please. 


A  PATRONESS  111 


(She  hands  cards  to  butler  and  takes  her  place  in  the  guest  line) 
How  do  you  do,  Mrs.  Caper;    and  this  is  your  debutante 

daughter,  the  last  one  of  the  season.     Isn't  she  sweet? 

Look  at  her  gown,  Mary.    Geraldine  must  have  made  it. 

How  do  you  do,  how  do  you  do? 

(She  bows  to  left  and  right  as  she  makes  her  way  through  the 

crush) 
Hello,  this  is  the  third  time  I've  seen  you  to-day.    Yes,  I'm 

hurrying  on  now  to  another  tea. 

(She  hurries  out  to  the  car;  taps  her  foot  impatiently) 
Jameson,  Jameson,  right  around  the  corner  to  Mrs.  Hamil 
ton's. 

(In  the  car  she  takes  four  cards  out  of  her  purse  and  holds 

them  in  her  hand.    She  alights) 
No,  I  don't  want  a  check.    I'm  coming  right  out  again. 

(She  hurries  into  a  house) 
No,  I  do  not  wish  to  take  my  wraps  off  upstairs. 

(Gives  cards  to  butler) 
Just  announce  me,  please.    How  do  you  do,  Mrs.  Reid?    And 

this  is  your  new  daughter-in-law;    charming.    And  Mrs. 

Foster,  her  mother,  and  the  grandmother  too!    How  very 

touchingly  sweet!     No,  I  haven't  time  for  tea.     Hello, 

nicely  decorated,  yes.     Music  too  loud!     What  did  you 

say?    Can't  hear  —  the  music  —     How  do  you  do?    Oh,  I 

beg  your  pardon,  what  a  crush!    I  must  get  out. 

(She  jostles  through  the  crowd  and  goes  out  to  her  car) 
Home,  Jameson. 

(She  sinks  exhausted  into  the  seat  and  closes  her  eyes.    She 

alights  from  the  car) 
Be  back  at  seven,  Jameson. 

(She  rings  the  house  bell) 
Henderson,  has  Mr.  Clark  come  home?    Bring  me  a  glass  of 

milk  and  a  sandwich;   I'm  starved 

(She  runs  upstairs) 
Yes,  Hannah,  am  I  late  again?    He's  fast  asleep?    Oh,  dear, 

I  did  want  to  see  him.    I'll  just  take  a  peep. 

(She  tiptoes  into  a  room  and  approaches  the  baby9s  crib) 


A  PATRONESS 


Precious  baby!    Mother's  lambkins!    How  sweet  he  looks! 
Snookums,  snookums! 
(She  hurries  out  and  calls  aloud) 

Annie,  quick,  my  blue  and  silver  brocade. 
(She  begins  to  undress) 

Miss  Perkins,  I  haven't  time  to  look  at  the  letters.  Just 
sign  them.  The  telephone  numbers  I  am  to  call  —  as  soon 
as  I  come  in?  Well,  pretend  I'm  not  in.  Let  them  catch 
me  if  they  can.  There's  a  ring  now. 

(She  dashes  into  the  hall  and  leaning  over  the  banister  calls 
down) 

Henderson,  answer  that  'phone  and  say  I  have  not  come 
home.  Hello,  John,  I  don't  care  what  vest  you  wear.  My 
slippers,  Miss  Perkins.  Dorothy,  take  my  gold  bag  out 
of  the  top  drawer.  Jimmie,  run  downstairs  and  see  what 
time  it  is.  I  think  my  clock  is  fast.  Oh,  Sarah,  the  milk, 
yes  —  just  a  sip  —  Miss  Perkins,  my  jewels.  Annie,  my 
clothes  into  the  bathroom  — 

(She  retires  behind  the  screen  but  talks  around  and  over  it 
from  time  to  time) 

Run  along,  Dorothy.  Now,  Miss  Perkins,  the  mail.  Will  I 
be  patroness  for  a  revival  of  ancient  chandeliers?  I  don't 
know  why  they  should  be  revived,  but  if  Mrs.  Cleverly 
knows,  I  suppose  I  shall  have  to  support  her.  By  the  way, 
to-day  at  luncheon  Mrs.  Hemming  had  exquisite  lace  on 
her  table.  Finer  than  mine.  I  wish  you'd  have  some 
pieces  sent  on  approval  the  next  time  you  godown  to  shop. 
I  can't  let  Mrs.  Hemming  have  anything  better  than  I  have. 
What  next?  They  want  me  to  be  a  patroness  for  the  cam 
paign  for  new  inkwells  in  the  public  schools?  I  wonder  if 
it  wouldn't  be  better  to  raise  a  fund  to  provide  fountain 
pens.  However,  I  haven't  time  to  take  up  the  matter  and 
I  dare  say  they  have  canvassed  the  field.  Yes,  I'll  be  pa 
troness. 
(She  comes  from  behind  the  screen) 

I've  had  a  hat  on  all  day.  Hasn't  my  hair  kept  beautifully? 
Just  give  me  the  fillet. 


A  PATRONESS  113 


(She  sits  before  the  dressing  table,  powders,  etc.) 

Two  very  personal  letters  to  me?  One  from  Mr.  Forrest? 
He's  sending  me  a  book?  How  sweet  of  him!  Quite  a 
beau,  Miss  Perkins,  quite  a  beau!  Makes  life  worth  while, 
a  dash  of  romance  now  and  then.  Take  your  time  to 
morrow  and  compose  a  billet  doux  for  me  to  send  back  to 
him.  Something  not  too  risque,  just  stimulating!  Dear 
me,  I  had  forgotten  his  existence,  but  it's  wonderful  even 
to  have  an  admirer  to  forget ! 
(She  rises  to  be  helped  into  her  evening  gown) 

Powder  my  back,  Annie.  I  always  like  this  brocade;  don't 
you  think  it  fits  well,  Miss  Perkins?  Yes,  John,  yes,  I'm 
coming.  How  impatient  men  are !  Nothing  to  do  but  their 
business  all  day  and  we  are  kept  at  such  high  speed.  Quick, 
my  opera  cloak! 
(She  rushes  into  the  hall) 

Coming!    Good  night,  children.    Don't  stay  up  too  late.    No, 
don't  kiss  me,  you'll  take  off  £he  powder. 
(She  runs  down  the  stairs) 

Good  night,  Henderson.    Oh,  it's  snowing.    John,  tell  Jame 
son  to  the  Murrays'. 
(She  gets  into  the  car) 

Now,  John,  I  hope  you  will  be  entertaining  to-night  and  put 
Mr.  Murray  into  good  humor.  I  want  to  sell  him  a  box 
for  the  benefit  for  Stray  Cats.  Now,  that's  not  nice  of  you 
at  all  to  make  a  pun  about  it !  Stray  cats  are  very  pathetic 
and  you  needn't  —  no  —  I  won't  forgive  you  —  no  —  I 
won't  kiss  you  —  you  muss  my  hair  —  and,  anyway,  here 
we  are. 
(She  alights  from  car) 

Back  at  eight,  Jameson. 

(She  hurries  into  house  and  drops  her  wraps) 

We'll  leave  our  things  here. 
(She  enters  the  drawing  room) 

Oh,  Mrs.  Murray,  forgive  tardiness,  but  you  know  how  much 
of  my  time  and  my  strength  this  city  claims !  Oh,  you  flatter ! 
Shall  we  go  right  in?  Are  you  my  partner,  Mr.  Boynton? 


114  A  PATRONESS 


(She  takes  his  arm  and  walks  into  dining  room,  finds  place 
card,  thanks  him  for  pushing  her  chair  out  for  her,  and  sits) 

Well,  Mr.  Boynton,  how  have  you  been?    You  always  accom 
plish  so  much  that  is  wonderful!    How  proud  your  wife 
must  be! 
(She  begins  to  eat  crab  cocktail) 

We  want  you  for  our  next  mayor.  With  all  your  legal  expe 
rience  you  are  eminently  suited.  Indeed,  I  mean  it.  Of 
course  you  have  had  it  as  a  secret  ambition,  but  my  intui 
tion  has  found  you  out.  Do  I  really  give  you  inspiration? 
Isn't  that  lovely?  How  interesting  life  is!  We  meet,  we 
eat  a  little  crab  together  and  then  we  part,  —  but  that 
moment  is  mutual. 
(She  is  served  a  plate  of  soup) 

What  have  7  been  doing?  Oh,  at  present  I  am  selling  boxes 
for  the  Stray  Cat  Benefit.  By  the  way,  won't  you  take  a 
box?  They're  one  hundred  dollars.  (With  languishing 
eyes)  So  good  of  you,  but  then  I  knew  you  would.  Oh, 
dear,  I  was  so  interested  talking  to  you  they  took  away 
my  soup.  I'd  like  to  invent  an  anchor  for  plates  at 
dinners. 

(She  helps  herself  to  the  meat  course  and  talks  to  the  man  at  her 
left) 

What  did  you  say,  Mr.  Tucker?  You  want  to  tell  me  a  story? 
Ha,  ha,  very  amusing.  Wliere  do  you  find  all  your  clever 
jokes?  How  considerate  of  Mrs.  Murray  to  place  you  next 
to  me!  How  interesting  life  is!  We  meet,  we  eat  a  little 
lamb  together,  and  then  we  part,  but  even  that  brief 
moment  was  freighted  with  —  Ah,  well,  how  is  your  wife? 
She  wasn't  very  anxious  to  approach  you  about  donating 
blankets  to  the  hospital,  but  I  said  she  misjudged  you.  I 
know  you  are  generous  and  that  two  dozen  blankets  more 
or  less  won't  cut  into  your  finances  very  much  —  why,  of 
course  —  certainly  —  I  knew  you  would. 
(She  talks  across  the  table) 

What,  Mr.  Llewellyn?  It's  after  eight  and  we'll  miss  the 
first  act?  Oh,  I  was  cautioned  particularly  not  to  miss 


A  PATRONESS  115 


the  first  scene.  Couldn't  we  go  now?  Who  wants  to  go 
now?  May  we  waive  the  conventions,  Mrs.  Murray,  and 
desert  before  the  salad?  Ha,  ha,  that  pun  is  due  to  your 
influence,  Mr.  Tucker.  Mrs.  Murray  doesn't  want  to  miss 
the  first  act  either,  —  of  course  you  don't.  It  just  takes  a 
daring  person  like  myself  to  arrange  matters  satisfactorily 
for  everybody.  Let's  go;  delicious  dinner,  my  dear,  but 
let's  go.  We  can  take  four  more  in  our  car.  You  and  you 
and  you  and  you! 

(She  leaves  the  table,  and  hurries  some  of  the  guests  to  her  car, 
and  gets  them  into  it) 

After  you,  after  you;  John,  tell  Jameson  the  Garrick  Theater. 
Drive  as  fast  as  you  can  without  spilling  us.  Delightful 
people,  the  Murrays.  He's  her  second  husband.  She  was 
a  widow.  Oh,  Mr.  Warren,  are  you  sure  she  was  divorced? 
Had  you  heard  that  before,  Cora?  Nor  had  I!  But  John 
dear,  it  doesn't  matter  which  it  was,  widow  or  divorced, 
one  simply  wishes  to  be  accurate.  I  never  like  to  misquote. 
Do  make  inquiries,  Mr.  Warren,  and  set  us  right  about  it. 
Close  the  window,  John,  there's  a  draft. 
(She  draws  her  cloak  closer  about  her) 

I  deeply  regret,  Mr.  Orlopski,  that  there  will  be  no  oppor 
tunity  this  evening  to  hear  you  play,  but  we  must  arrange 
a  concert  for  you.  You  should  be  more  widely  known. 
Such  technique  and  what  a  soul !  Here  we  are. 
(She  alights  from  automobile,  enters  swinging  doors  of  theater 
and  whispers  as  they  walk  down  the  aisle  to  a  box) 

You  go  in  first  and  you  and  you.    Who  has  the  programmes? 
Ssh! 
(She  watches  the  play.     She  applauds) 

Too  bad  we  came  so  late.  Missed  most  of  it.  There  are  the 
others  in  the  box  across  the  way.  A  packed  house !  How 
do  you  do?  Why,  I  know  any  number  of  people  in  the 
audience;  good  evening.  Have  you  seen  the  portrait 
exhibit  at  Dale's,  Mr.  Warren?  Most  charming.  We 
dropped  in  a  moment  this  afternoon  —  you  really  must  go 
—  ah,  the  curtain's  going  up  again. 


116  A  PATRONESS 


(She  watches  the  play.  She  laughs,  she  weeps,  uses  her  hand 
kerchief  furtively  to  her  eyes,  shudders  with  horror,  applauds) 

Oh,  isn't  it  thrilling?  I  actually  wept!  Wasn't  she  superb! 
How  does  she  keep  her  figure?  Why,  I  thought  she  was 
grown  up  when  I  was  a  little  girl.  John,  let's  slip  out  ahead 
of  the  crowd  before  the  last  act  is  over.  One  catches  cold 
waiting  for  the  car. 

(She  watches  the  play  and  after  a  while  pokes  her  husband 
and  whispers) 

Come,  now  that  we  know  she's  going  to  marry  him  after  all 
there's  no  use  to  wait.  Ssh,  ssh! 

(She  tiptoes  out  of  the  dark  theater  to  the  street,  where  she 
stands  shivering  with  cold) 

Draw  your  fur  over  your  chest,  Mrs.  Warren;   you'll  catch 
your  worst!    There's  Jameson,  John.    Strong  play!    Get 
in,  Cora,  get  in,  don't  wait  to  argue. 
(She  enters  automobile) 

Oh,  it's  cold!  Give  us  the  rug.  What  a  jam  of  cars!  Why 
so  silent,  Mr.  Warren?  The  play?  Yes,  it  makes  one 
think.  John,  have  Jamesom  come  back  at  one.  We're 
going  to  take  our  coats  off  in  the  dressing  room.  We'll 
meet  you  at  the  head  of  the  stairs. 

(She  alights  from  car,  enters  dressing  room,  gives  coat  to  maid, 
accepts  check  for  it,  powders  her  nose,  gives  herself  a  glance  in 
the  mirror  and  goes  out,  walks  up  a  short  flight  of  stairs  to 
join  the  others) 

Here  we  are.    Where's  Mr.  Llewellyn's  table?    Over  there. 
Yes,  let's  dance  to  it. 
(She  dances  with  a  partner  and  then  sits  at  table) 

Hello,  everybody!  How  did  you  like  the  play?  Oh,  what 
good  rarebit  —  nice  and  hot  —  how  good  it  is  when  it's 
hot!  Will  I  dance?  Oh,  yes! 

(She  leaves  dish,  dances  around  room,  applauds,  dances  some 
more,  comes  back  to  the  rarebit.  By  this  time  it  is  cold, 
stringy  and  tough.  She  has  difficulty  cutting  it) 

You  know  there's  no  dish  so  delicious  as  this  when  it's  — 
will  I  dance  —  oh,  yes! 


A  PATRONESS  117 


(She  dances,  applauds,  dances  and  comes  back  to  table  only 
to  find  that  the  waiter  has  removed  the  rarebit) 

Oh,  it's  gone!  Not  through?  Oh,  yes,  thank  you,  Mr. 
Llewellyn,  the  waiter  was  quite  right!  I  had  finished. 
But,  John,  it  must  be  one  o'clock.  Will  you  excuse  us? 
You  know  John  is  a  hard-working  business  man  and  I  have 
to  look  after  him.  I  mustn't  keep  him  up  too  late.  Such 
a  charming  party.  Mr.  Llewellyn,  thank  you;  good-by, 
every  one! 

(She  hurries  out,  down  the  short  stairs  into  the  dressing  room, 
exchanges  her  check  for  her  coat,  tips  the  maid,  meets  her 
husband  outside  and  climbs  into  car) 

I  wanted  to  hurry  away  so  we  wouldn't  have  to  take  any  one 
home.  I  couldn't  talk  another  word  to  anybody!  I  do 
wish,  John,  you  wouldn't  always  dance  with  Mrs.  Bailey; 
it  forces  me  to  dance  with  him  and  he  can't.  Oh,  you  like 
Mrs.  Bailey;  well,  really,  my  dear,  that's  somewhat  of  a 
confession,  isn't  it,  to  tell  your  wife?  You'd  like  to  have 
me  imitate  her,  I  suppose!  So  quiet  and  has  so  much 
poise— isn't  rushed!  Oh,  indeed,  I  should  say  she  wasn't 
rushed.  Her  name  doesn't  count  for  a  bag  of  beans  in  this 
city.  She  isn't  asked  to  do  anything.  She  has  to  be  quiet 
because  she  hasn't  the  ability  to  be  anything  else.  That's 
a  horrid  choice  to  put  against  me!  You're  an  ungrateful 
husband,  after  all  I've  done  to  make  your  name  count 
for  something.  There  isn't  a  patroness  list  in  town  that 
hasn't  your  name  on  it,  not  an  invitation  list  that  counts 
but  has  your  name!  I  haven't  been  making  history  for 
my  maiden  name.  No,  I  do  all  the  work  and  your  name 
gets  all  the  glory,  and  your  children;  that's  why  I'm  doing 
it,  for  your  children!  Your  children!  And  then  after  I've 
planned  and  worked  to  make  this  beautiful  reputation, 
you  dare  to  measure  me  against  Mrs.  Bailey.  Oh,  it  is  too 
cruel ! 

(She  weeps) 
I  No,  you  meant  it,  you  can't  apologize.     Nothing  you  can 


118  A  PATRONESS 


say  can  take  away  the  sting !    No,  go  away,  I'm  hurt,  hurt ! 
Let  me  alone,  I  can't  let  Jameson  see  me  cry. 
(She  wipes  her  eyes  and  alights  from  car) 

Good  night,  Jameson,  to-morrow  morning  at  ten.     Hurry 
with  your  key,  John,  and  don't  keep  me  standing  in  the  cold 
all  night. 
(She  enters  the  house,  goes  upstairs,  undressing  on  the  way) 

I'm  so  tired.  No,  you  needn't  help  me  up.  Not  after  what 
you  said.  If  I  have  to  make  my  life  alone,  I  suppose  I  can 
go  up  the  stairs  alone.  Oh,  to  think  that  you  —  oh,  why 
did  I  ever  marry  you!  I'm  not  hysterical!  Oh,  do  you 
love  me?  Do  you  really?  As  much  as  that?  Of  course  I 
love  you.  Better  than  all  the  world.  You  do?  You  are 
proud?  Oh,  that's  all  I  wanted  to  hear  you  say !  And  now 
I'll  go  and  sleep  peacefully,  I  am  very  tired. 
(She  begins  to  lie  down  as  she  was  at  beginning  of  the  sketch) 

Oh,  how  you  startled  me!  What!  You  just  remembered 
that  there  is  to  be  a  strange  phenomenon  to  appear  in  the 
sky  about  this  time?  It  only  happens  once  in  a  thousand 
years?  I  don't  care,  I'd  rather  sleep.  Oh,  the  children! 
It's  an  education  for  the  children!  But  they're  asleep! 
You  insist !  It's  educational !  Well,  I  suppose  we  have  to. 
(She  gets  out  of  bed  with  an  effort,  pushes  open  an  adjoining 
door  and  calls) 

Jimmy!  Dorothy!  Come,  dears,  wake  up!  Father  com 
mands  it!  It's  really  cruel  of  you,  John.  Of  course  I  want 
them  educated.  Wake  up,  Dorothy.  Father  wishes  you 
to  look  at  the  sky.  See  the  strange  light !  See !  See ! 
Remember  this  always!  How  we  showed  you  what  some 
people  never  live  to  see!  Isn't  it  marvelous?  There! 
Now  you've  seen  it,  run  back  to  bed  and  don't  ever  accuse 
me  of  neglecting  your  education. 

(She  pushes  them  out  of  the  room  and  flings  herself  exhausted 
upon  the  bed) 

It  happens  once  in  a  thousand  years !    They  might  have  kept 
it  for  the  next  generation!    Why  pile  it  upon  me! 
CURTAIN 


EVER  YOUNG 
A  PLAY  IN  ONE  ACT 


BY  ALICE  GERSTENBERG 


The  first  performance  of  this  play  was  given  in  the  Anna 
Morgan  Studios,  Fine  Arts  Building,  Chicago,  111. 


Characters 

MRS.  PHOEBE  PAYNE-DEXTER 
MRS.  AGNES  DORCHESTER 
MRS.  WILLIAM  BLANCHARD 
MRS.  CAROLINE  COURTNEY-PAGE 


COPTBIQHT,  1920,  BT  NORMAH  LEE  SwABTOUT. 

All  rigUt  retened. 

No  performance  of  this  play,  either  amateur  or  professional,  may  be  given  except  by  special 
arrangement  with  the  author's  representative,  Mr.  Norman  Lee  Swartout,  Summit,  N.  J 


EVER  YOUNG 

SCENE.  These  four  distinguished  women  of  some  fifty  and 
sixty  years,  but  in  spirit  forever  young,  enjoy  spending  a  few 
hours  after  dinner  chatting  in  a  corner  of  the  lobby  of  the  Poin- 
ciana  Hotel,  Palm  Beach,  at  the  height  of  the  season,  from  which 
vantage  ground  they  may  view  the  passing  show  of  fashionables. 

The  lobby  is  furnished  with  wicker  chairs  (with  cretonne 
cushions)  sheltered  by  palms.  From  the  distance  come  faint 
strains  of  an  orchestra. 

MRS.  PAYNE-DEXTER  (enters  from  right  as  if  looking  for  a  com 
fortable  chair.  She  pulls  the  chairs  about  until  she  has  placed 
them  to  suit  herself.  Her  face  is  wrinkled,  but  there  is  no 
sign  of  age  in  her  worldly  humorous  eyes,  her  tightly  corseted 
figure,  her  vibrant  personality.  She  wears  a  lavender  bro 
cade  evening  gown  and  a  dog  collar  of  diamonds.  Her  white 
hair  is  perfectly  marcelled  and  her  well-manicured  hands 
flash  with  rings.  She  uses  a  diamond-studded  lorgnette  and 
carries  a  large  hotel  room  key.  She  takes  her  chair  with  the 
authority  of  a  leader) .  There  was  no  need  to  hurry  through 
dinner,  Agnes,  there  are  plenty  of  chairs. 

MRS.  DORCHESTER  (follows  Mrs.  Payne-Dexter.  She  is  a 
sweet,  placid-faced  woman  with  white  hair,  not  marcelled, 
and  she  has  the  rosy  complexion  of  one  who  has  lived  on  a 
country  estate.  She  wears  eyeglasses.  She  is  gowned  in 
rich  gold  silk  and  is  rather  too  overladen  with  old-fashioned 
jewelry,  —  earrings,  bracelets,  pendants,  rings,  mostly  in 
amber,  gold  and  black  onyx.  She  carries  a  capacious  bag 
of  black  and  gold  brocade  which  contains  her  wool,  which  she 
begins  to  knit  as  soon  as  she  is  comfortably  seated.  The  ball 
of  wool  and  the  baby  sock  she  is  knitting  are  light  blue).  We 
missed  our  chance  last  evening  because  you  lingered  over 
your  coffee. 


EVER  YOUNG 


MRS.  PAYNE-DEXTER  (dominatingly) .    I  always  linger  over  my 

coffee.     I    always    did    when    Thomas    was    alive.     Our 

family  always  has  lingered  over  the  coffee. 
MRS.  DORCHESTER  (mildly).    In  another  moment  there  would 

not  have  been  a  chair  vacant.     Which  one  do  you  prefer? 
MRS.  PAYNE-DEXTER.     Put  one  aside  for  Mrs.  Blanchard.     I 

nodded  to  her  in  this  direction  as  we  came  out  of  the  dining 

room. 
MRS.  DORCHESTER  (sits).     She  will  like  this  corner.     We  can 

see  every  one  who  crosses  the  lobby. 
MRS.  PAYNE-DEXTER  (using  her  lorgnettes} .    How  many  sights 

and  how  many  frights  shall  we  see  to-niglit?     Really, 

Agnes,  I  wish  you  would  give  up  wearing  your  old-fashioned 

onyx  and  amber.     Why  don't  you  turn  in  all  that  junk 

and  get  something  new  and  fashionable? 
MRS.  DORCHESTER.     Oh,  I've  never  had  any  desire  to  buy- 
jewelry  since  my  husband  died. 
MRS.  PAYNE-DEXTER.     But  that  was  ages  ago.     I've  had  all 

my  diamonds  reset  since  Thomas  went,  and  I've  had  my 

wedding  ring  melted  and  molded  again  into  an  orange 

wreath. 
MRS.  DORCHESTER.     There's  the  young  bride  who  arrived 

to-day. 

MRS.  PAYNE-DEXTER.     Where? 
MRS.  DORCHESTER.     Over  there  near  the  fountain  in  a  very 

low  gown. 

MRS.  PAYNE-DEXTER.     I  don't  see  her. 
MRS.  DORCHESTER.     She  moved  behind  a  column. 
MRS.  PAYNE-DEXTER  (rises  and  crosses).     I  don't  see  her. 

Why  didn't  you  tell  me  before  the  column  got  in  the 

way? 
MRS.  DORCHESTER.     If  you  were  not  so  vain,  Phoebe,  you 

would  wear  decent  glasses  like  mine. 
MRS.  PAYNE-DEXTER.     Indeed,  I  can  see  perfectly  well. 
MRS.  DORCHESTER.     Well,  I  don't  blame  you  for  using  your 

lorgnettes.     It  does  add  distinction  to  your  Payne-Dexter 

manner. 


EVER  YOUNG  123 


MRS.  PAYNE-DEXTER  (amused).  What!  Are  you  still  im 
pressed  by  my  manner? 

MRS.  DORCHESTER.  I  have  been  for  forty  years!  Dear  me, 
Phoebe,  is  it  really  forty  years  since  you  and  I  were  debu 
tantes? 

MRS.  PAYNE-DEXTER  (looking  about  cautiously).  Ssh!  Don't 
let  the  hotel  know  I  am  sixty. 

MRS.  DORCHESTER.     No  one  guesses  it. 

MRS.  PAYNE-DEXTER  (rises  and  takes  another  chair  which  suits 
her  better}.  I  certainly  don't  feel  it,  but  let  me  tell  you, 
these  young  debutantes  to-day,  with  their  supercilious 
airs,  their  sophisticated  conversation,  their  smoking  in 
public  places,  are  not  going  to  crowd  me  back  into  a  grand 
mother's  corner.  No!  I  shall  live  another  twenty  years 
at  least,  if  only  to  see  these  young  things  grow  into  the 
troubles  of  married  life,  and  it  will  please  me! 

MRS.  DORCHESTER.  Why  have  you  such  animosity  toward 
the  debutantes?  You  terrorize  them.  Everywhere  they 
side-step  for  you.  In  elevators,  corridors,  in  the  ball 
room,  on  the  beach,  they  put  themselves  out  to  be  defer 
ential  to  you.  It  is,  "Good  morning,  Mrs.  Payne-Dexter; 
good  afternoon,  Mrs.  Payne-Dexter;  good  evening,  Mrs. 
Payne-Dexter,"  but  they  never  see  me,  even  though  we 
have  been  here  since  the  opening  of  the  season. 

MRS.  PAYNE-DEXTER.  It  is  because  you  don't  create  the 
atmosphere  which  demands  their  attention.  I  am  putting 
on  all  the  Payne-Dexter  airs  I  can  invent  in  order  to 
terrorize  them.  I  want  to  make  the  debutantes  and  their 
smart  young  men  side-step  for  me.  Their  youth  and 
prettiness  are  no  longer  mine,  but  I  hold  over  them  the 
whip  hand.  I  am  a  dowager,  a  member  of  a  society  that 
once  ruled  New  York,  and  does  still,  to  a  certain  extent, 
and  they  shall  bow  to  me  as  long  as  I  inhale  one  breath  of 
life! 

MRS.  DORCHESTER.  I  do  believe  you  are  jealous  of  the  present 
generation. 

MRS.  PAYNE-DEXTER  (rises  and  takes  another  chair  which  suits 


124  EVER  YOUNG 


her  better).  .Agnes,  you  have  kept  your  health  living  on 
your  estate  in  Long  Island,  but  you  have  watched  the 
inevitable  drying  up  of  leaves  in  autumn  and  you  have 
followed  what  seems  to  you  the  inevitable  progress  of 
autumn  into  winter;  —  well,  my  hair  may  be  as  white 
as  snow,  but  my  blood  is  still  red ! 

MRS.  DORCHESTER.  Your  vitality  is  a  marvel  to  every  one. 
Your  club  work,  civic  and  social  leadership  make  even  the 
doctors  amazed  at  you. 

MRS.  PAYNE-DEXTER.  The  doctors  are  my  worst  enemies. 
They  tell  me  I  must  not  do  this  nor  that.  They  tell  me 
I  am  getting  old,  that  I  must  rest.  I  do  not  wish  to  rest. 
I  simply  won't  grow  old.  When  one  has  been  a  leader,  one 
cannot  let  younger  women  usurp  one's  position. 

MRS.  DORCHESTER.     You  still  have  your  leadership. 

MRS.  PAYNE-DEXTER.  I  still  have  it  because  I  will  to  have  it, 
because  I  will  not  let  it  go ;  but  I  have  to  strive  harder  for 
it  every  year;  every  year  I  must  grow  more  imperious, 
more  dominating,  more  terrorizing  to  hold  supremacy 
over  this  new  independent  generation.  (Looks  off  left) 
There  is  that  little  presumptuous  May  Whigham.  She 
is  eighteen  and  so  rude  I  should  like  to  spank  her. 

MRS.  DORCHESTER.     They  all  fear  you,  Phoebe. 

MRS.  PAYNE-DEXTER  (with  grim  humor).  I  hope  so.  I  shall 
not  be  pushed  into  a  corner  as  long  as  I  still  draw  one 
breath  of  life. 

MRS.  DORCHESTER  (looking  off  right).  Good  evening,  Mrs. 
Blanchard. 

MRS.  PAYNE-DEXTER.  We  kept  a  chair  for  you. 
•  MRS.  BLANCHARD  (enters  from  right.  She  is  thin,  a  trifle  bent 
with  age  and  needs  a  walking  cane.  It  is  gold-topped  and 
suspended  on  it  is  a  gold  mesh  bag.  In  her  left  hand  she 
carries  a  book.  She  is  exquisitely  gowned  in  light  blue 
chiffon  and  rare  old  lace.  Her  face  is  like  a  cameo,  scarcely 
a  wrinkle  in  it,  and  her  smile  is  illuminatingly  young.  She 
wears  a  diamond  necklace  but  no  rings).  Good  evening, 
Mrs.  Payne-Dexter,  Mrs.  Dorchester. 


EVER  YOUNG  125 


MRS.  DORCHESTER  (helping  Mrs.  Blanchard).     Sit  down,  Mrs. 

Blanchard. 
—MRS.  BLANCHARD.     No  thank  you,  do  not  help  me.     I  am 

about  to  throw  it  away. 

MRS.  PAYNE-DEXTER.     Throw  your  cane  away? 
-MRS.  BLANCHARD  (with  a  light  in  her  eyes).     Yes,  I  am  not 

going  to  need  it  in  a  week  or  so. 

MRS.  DORCHESTER.  I  heard  of  a  woman  the  other  day  who 
dispensed  with  her  cane. 

MRS.  BLANCHARD.       Who  Was  it? 

MRS.  DORCHESTER  (nods  straight  ahead).  That  golf  champion 
over  there,  what's  her  name,  —  the  one  with  the  burnt  V 
on  her  chest;  she  told  me  all  about  a  case,  but  dear  me, 
I  never  can  remember  names.  N. 

MRS.  BLANCHARD.     I  shall  have  to  ask  her  about  it. 

MRS.  PAYNE-DEXTER.  Are  you  getting  stronger,  Mrs. 
Blanchard? 

-  MRS.  BLANCHARD.     I  must  get  stronger.     I  am  tired  of  de 

pending  upon  a  cane.  Everywhere  I  go  people  are 
putting  themselves  out  to  be  polite  to  me.  Men  help  me; 
women  send  their  men  to  help  me;  chauffeurs  help  me; 
bell  boys,  waiters,  debutantes  help  me  — 
MRS.  PAYNE-DEXTER.  Debutantes!  I  can  scarcely  believe 
it! 

•  MRS:  BLANCHARD.     The  debutantes  hop  around  me  like  so 

many   sand-flies;     I   feel   like   swatting   them   with   this 

(shakes  cane) ;  their  politeness  to  my  infirmity  is  an  insult ! 

If  they  would  only  be  rude! 
MRS.  DORCHESTER.     Mrs.  Payne-Dexter  was  just  complaining 

that  they  were  too  rude. 
MRS.  PAYNE-DEXTER.     Rude!    They  are! 
MRS.  BLANCHARD.    If  they  are  rude  to  you,  it  is  a  compliment. 

They  do  not  look  upon  you  as  old  and  decrepit.     I  resent 

their  solicitude.     In  a  day  or  two  I  shall  throw  this  old 

thing  away. 

[She  tosses  cane  aside. 
MRS.  PAYNE-DEXTER.     Mrs.  Blanchard! 


126  EVER  YOUNG 


MRS.  BLANCHARD.     It  is  no  idle  threat.     I  mean  it ! 

MRS.  DORCHESTER.     But  you  told  me  you  had  used  it  fifteen 

years. 
MRS.  BLANCHARD.     So  I  have  and  it  is  old  enough  to  throw 

away.     It  is  the  oldest  leg  I  have  and  it  is  going  to  be 

thrown  away. 

MRS.  DORCHESTER.      Oldest? 

MRS.  BLANCHARD.     What  are  you  doubting? 
MRS.  DORCHESTER.     My  dear  Mrs.  Blanchard,  you  just  said 
your  cane  is  the  oldest  leg  you  have  — 

MRS.  BLANCHARD.      So  it  IS. 

MRS.  PAYNE-DEXTER  (humorously) .  Mrs.  Dorchester  would 
like  to  know  just  exactly  how  old  the  others  are. 

MRS.  BLANCHARD.  The  others  are  just  exactly  not  more 
than  nine  months ! 

MRS.  DORCHESTER.     Nine  months! 

MRS.  BLANCHARD.     Do  you  think  I  should  say  ninety  years? 

MRS.  PAYNE-DEXTER.  Wouldn't  that  be  a  little  nearer  to 
the  truth? 

MRS.  BLANCHARD  (triumphantly).  But  it  is  not  the  truth! 
The  wonderful  truth  is  that  my  legs  are  not  fifty  years 
old,  they  are  not  more  than  nine  months  old.  I  have 
been  reading  an  amazing  book. 

MRS.  DORCHESTER.      What  is  it? 

MRS.  PAYNE-DEXTER  (using  her  lorgnettes  to  read  the  title). 

"Truth  and  Youth." 
MRS.  BLANCHARD.     This  book  says  that  every  cell  in  our 

body  is  completely  new  every  nine  months. 
MRS.  DORCHESTER.     I  heard  about  that.     My  daughter  was 

reading  a  book  about  that.     I  forget  what  it  was  called. 
MRS.  BLANCHARD.     Each  cell  reproduces  itself  according  to 

the  impression  given  to  it  by  our  subconscious  mind.     As 

we  grow  old  we  hold  a  thought  of  age  and  impress  the  cells 

with  that  thought,  but  if  we  rid  ourselves  of  the  illusion  of 

old  age  we  can  remain  ever  young. 
MRS.  PAYNE-DEXTER.     Let  me  have  this  book.     I  would  pay 

a  fortune  for  youth. 


EVER  YOUNG  127 


MRS.  BLANCHARD.  We  do  not  have  to  pay  for  youth.  We 
just  have  to  think  it  and  be  it.  It  is  very  simple,  they  say, 
when  one  has  faith. 

MRS.  DORCHESTER.  What  was  that  book  my  daughter  was 
reading  —  dear,  dear,  I  never  can  remember  names  and 
titles  and  numbers! 

MRS.  PAYNE-DEXTER.  Too  much  wool,  Agnes.  Her  mind  is 
one  hundred  years  old. 

MRS.  DORCHESTER  (good-naturedly) .  Not  quite.  I  have  had 
too  many  financial  matters  to  attend  to  since  my  husband 
died  to  let  me  slip  too  far  behind  the  times,  but  I  believe 
in  accepting  old  age  with  as  good  a  grace  as  possible. 

MRS.  BLANCHARD.  Rubbish!  That  is  antediluvian!  I  am 
just  beginning  to  learn  how  to  live.  Do  you  know  I  have 
just  obtained  my  divorce? 

MRS.  PAYNE-DEXTER.  Have  you  divorced  Mr.  Blanchard 
after  all  these  years? 

MRS.  BLANCHARD.  Yes,  after  all  these  years.  I  suppose  you 
know  the  story  of  my  life.  It  was  commented  upon 
nationally  when  my  daughter  married  the  Duke  of  Cau- 
breigh. 

MRS.  PAYNE-DEXTER.  My  St.  Louis  friends  often  mentioned 
you;  that  is  why  I  was  so  interested  meeting  you  here 
this  season.  When  my  husband  was  alive  he  used  to  hear 
things  at  the  clubs. 

MRS.  BLANCHARD.  No  doubt  he  did.  My  husband  has  been 
notoriously  unfaithful  to  me  and  I  never  had  the  sense  to 
get  rid  of  him.  Never  had  the  courage,  until  now;  but 
now  it  is  all  as  clear  as  day  to  me,  —  if  I  have  been  a  fool 
for  forty  years,  must  I  stay  a  fool  forever?  No,  I  kicked 
over  .the  traces  with  my  wooden  leg  —  and  I  am  a  free 
woman. 

MRS.  DORCHESTER.  How  odd,  to  think  of  your  willingly 
giving  up  your  husband  when  we  widows  so  wish  ours 
back  again ! 

MRS.  PAYNE-DEXTER.     Did  your  husband  contest  it? 

MRS.   BLANCHARD.     My  husband  was   amazed,   indignant; 


128  EVER  YOUNG 


he  writes  me  imploring  letters.  He  is  old  now  and  ready 
to  settle  down.  Now,  when  he  is  ready  to  sit  before  the 
fireplace  and  watch  me  knit,  I  have  played  a  trick  on  him. 
I  am  not  ready  to  sit  before  the  fireplace  and  I  would 
rather  play  roulette  than  knit.  By  the  way,  I  gambled 
three  hundred  dollars  away  last  night. 

MRS.  DORCHESTER.     We  left  early. 

MRS.  PAYNE-DEXTER.     That  is,  at  midnight. 

MRS.  DORCHESTER.  We  rode  around  a  bit  before  coming  in. 
It  was  so  balmy  and  I  just  love  to  ride  in  the  wheel-chairs. 

MRS.  PAYNE-DEXTER.  I  suppose  it  was  not  quite  the  thing 
for  two  lone  women  to  be  riding  around  in  the  moonlight, 
at  midnight,  but  the  colored  boy  said  every  one  does  it  at 
Palm  Beach. 

MRS.  DORCHESTER.     It  was  very  romantic. 

MRS.  PAYNE-DEXTER.  There  is  romance  in  every  breeze 
through  the  palm  trees. 

MRS.  BLANCHARD  (gaily).  I  didn't  come  back  to  the  hotel 
until  morning.  I  stayed  on  and  played,  had  breakfast 
there  —  came  home  without  a  ring  on  my  finger  —  handed 
them  over  as  security  to  a  friend  who  thought  it  amusing 
to  take  them. 

MRS.  DORCHESTER.  We  missed  you  on  the  beach  this  morn 
ing. 

MRS.  BLANCHARD.  I  slept  until  luncheon.  I  am  going  back 
to-night  to  win  my  rings  again.  (She  dangles  her  gold  bag 
stuffed  with  bills)  Starting  with  five  hundred  to-night. 

MRS.  PAYNE-DEXTER.  Before  you  know  it,  you  will  have 
gambled  a  fortune  away. 

MRS.  BLANCHARD  (laughs).  I'm  not  worrying.  I  receive  an 
amazingly  high  alimony.  The  court  figured  that  I  would 
not  live  long  and  that  I  needed  much  medical  care.  Well, 
I  am  not  paying  out  any  money  for  medical  care  and  when 
it  comes  to  having  a  good  time  I  am  making  up  for  thirty 
years.  I  found  only  one  man  in  my  whole  life  whom  I 
really  loved  and  he  was  not  my  husband. 

MRS.  PAYNE-DEXTER.     What  happened? 


EVER  YOUNG  129 


MRS.  BLANCHARD.  I  have  never  known  what  became  of 
him. 

MRS.  DORCHESTER.  I  can't  imagine  what  it  must  be  not  to 
love  one's  husband.  I  miss  mine  so. 

MRS.  BLANCHARD.  I  had  been  married  only  four  months 
when  I  heard  of  my  husband's  infatuation  for  a  married 
woman  in  our  own  set.  He  had  married  me  only,  it  seems, 
to  allay  suspicion.  Of  course,  I  see  now  that  I  should  have 
divorced  him  then  and  there,  but  I  was  very  young  and 
it  wasn't  being  done  in  those  days.  In  those  hours  of 
my  disillusion,  a  dashing  young  lieutenant  understood  my 

>  despair  and  planned  to  arouse  my  husband's  jealousy 
and  so  bring  him  back  to  me  — 

MRS.  DORCHESTER.  Phoebe,  stop  fuddling  with  your  door- 
key.  It  gets  on  my  nerves. 

MRS.  BLANCHARD.     He  succeeded  in  arousing  my  husband's 
jealousy,  but  meanwhile  I  had  fallen  in  love  with  the 
lieutenant. 
MRS.  PAYNE-DEXTER.     And  he  with  you,  no  doubt? 

MRS.  BLANCHARD.      Yes. 

MRS.  DORCHESTER.     Mrs.  Blanchard,  it  is  a  life  tragedy,  but 

not  a  line  of  it  shows  in  your  face. 
MRS.  BLANCHARD.     I  wouldn't  let  it  show  in  my  face.     I 

harbored  a  secret  thought  —  a  terrible  thought  —  that 

(my  husband  might  die,  that  I  might  be  free  to  find  the 
other  again,  that  then  he  should  not  see  an  old  wrinkled 
face  after  he  had  cherished  the  memory  of  my  youth. 

MRS.  PAYNE-DEXTER.  Think  of  living  like  that  all  these 
years  when  you  might  have  had  a  divorce  long  ago. 

MRS.  BLANCHARD.  It's  humorous  in  a  way,  isn't  it?  That 
when  women  like  you  and  Mrs.  Dorchester  are  widowed, 
I  had  to  put  up  with  a  husband  who  just  wouldn't  die. 

MRS.  PAYNE-DEXTER.     What  became  of  the  lieutenant? 

MRS.  BLANCHARD.  He  asked  to  be  transferred  to  another 
post.  He  wanted  to  go  as  far  away  from  me  as  possible  — 
no  distance  seemed  far  enough  to  break  the  magnetic 
attraction  between  us.  Finally  he  was  sent  as  far  away 


130  EVER  YOUNG 


as  China  and  there  we  lost  track  of  him  in  the  Boxer  Re 
bellion. 

MRS.  DORCHESTER.     And  you  never  heard  from  him  again? 

MRS.  BLANCHARD.  No.  The  Government  reported  him  as 
missing.  No  doubt  the  Chinese  took  him  prisoner.  If 
he  died  —  and  I  think  he  must  have  died  —  all  these 
years  I  have  imagined  that  he  died  —  I  have  felt  his  spirit 
near  me  —  guiding  me  —  watching  over  me. 

MRS.  DORCHESTER  (shakes  her  head) .  Do  you  believe  he  could 
be  near  you?  I  don't  believe  that  my  husband  is.  I  sit 
and  knit  and  think  of  him,  but  the  beyond  seems  nothing 
but  void  and  silence. 

MRS.  PAYNE-DEXTER  (practically).  Well,  I  believe  in  believ 
ing  anything  that  helps  you. 

MRS.  DORCHESTER  (shakes  her  head).  I  can't  get  into  com 
munication. 

MRS.  BLANCHARD  (hopefully).  Oh,  I  know  Oliver  Trent  has 
never  forgotten  me.  If  he  had  lived  or  escaped,  Oliver 
would  have  found  me.  I  know  Oliver  died  and  that  his 
spirit  has  been  lovingly  near  me  these  twenty  odd  years! 

MRS.  DORCHESTER.  My  husband  and  I  loved  each  other 
deeply.  That  love,  it  seems  to  me,  should  hold  us 
together  even  after  he  has  gone,  but  I  can't  believe  that 
it  does. 

MRS.  BLANCHARD.  It  does  and  it  will,  if  you  have  faith. 
There  is  nothing  but  love  —  I  am  beginning  to  feel  it.  For 
a  long  while  I  tried  to  make  myself  believe  it  —  for  a 
long  while  I  could  only  think,  but  now  I  am  beginning  to 
feel,  deep  within  me  to  realize  it  —  and  I  feel  warm  all 
through.  Oh,  I  shall  put  aside  my  ancient  leg! 

MRS.  PAYNE-DEXTER.  Of  course  he  loved  you  —  I  am  sure 
he  did. 

MRS.  DORCHESTER.  If  he  were  alive,  now  that  you  have 
your  divorce  — 

MRS.  BLANCHARD.  So  you  see  my  romance  is  only  a  shadow. 
I  never  dared  keep  a  letter  from  him,  not  a  token  —  I 
have  only  my  thoughts  — 


EVER  YOUNG  131 


MRS.  PAYNE-DEXTER.  And  the  thoughts  have  kept  your 
face  young. 

MRS.  BLANCHARD.  I  would  not  let  my  face  change  —  if  by 
some  miracle  he  should  see  me  again  —  but  I  couldn't 
control  my  body  as  well  —  it  grew  wearier  and  wearier 
until  I  needed  a  cane  to  lean  on. 

MRS.  DORCHESTER.     And  here  you  are  threatening  to  walk 
I  ,    without  it. 

MRS.  BLANCHARD  (brightening).  I  will,  too!  I  only  get  blue 
when  I  begin  to  think  of  the  past.  It's  a  bad  habit.  I 
shall  not  do  it  any  more.  Only,  if  I  could  be  sure  that  he 
died  with  just  me  in  his  heart,  I  wouldn't  mind  so  much 
his  not  being  alive  —  if  I  could  but  know  — 

MRS.  PAYNE-DEXTER.  I  should  certainly  continue  to  believe 
that  he  remembered. 

MRS.  DORCHESTER  (consolingly) .     I  am  sure  he  did. 
.   MRS.  BLANCHARD.     I  built  my  life  upon  my  faith  in  him  — 
if  I  should  be  robbed  of  this  belief  in  his  love  for  me  —  I 
think  it  would  —  kill  me. 

MRS.  PAYNE-DEXTER.  But  if  you  could  have  proof  of  his 
love  — 

MRS.  BLANCHARD  (with  shining  eyes).     If  I  could  have  proof! 

MRS.  PAYNE-DEXTER  (looking  of  stage  through  lorgnette}. 
There's  that  beautiful  Mrs.  Courtney-Page.  I  should 
ike  to  know  her  better.  Shall  we  invite  her  to  sit  with  us? 

MRS.  BLANCHARD.       Who  is  she? 

MRS.  PAYNE-DEXTER.  The  white-haired  woman  in  white 
velvet  carrying  a  black  feather  fan.  She  is  just  coming 
out  of  mourning  for  her  last  husband. 

MRS.  DORCHESTER.     Last!    How  many  has  she  had? 

MRS.  PAYNE-DEXTER.  The  manicurist  told  me  she  had  three 
—  and  the  clerk  in  the  jewel  shop  told  me  only  one;  they 
were  appraising  her  pearls  —  she  has  such  marvelous 
pearls  —  I'd  love  to  see  her  pearls  close  by,  wouldn't 
you? 

MRS.  BLANCHARD.  Oh,  do  invite  her  over;  I'd  like  to  ex 
change  data  about  husbands.  Is  she  down  here  alone? 


132  EVER  YOUNG 


MRS.  PAYNE-DEXTER.  They  say  she  came  alone,  but  I 
noticed  her  on  the  beach  with  one  man  and  in  a  wheel 
chair  with  another  —  she's  alone  now  though  and  looking 
for  a  place  to  sit  —  call  her  over,  Agnes. 

MRS.  DORCHESTER  (timidly).  Oh,  I  don't  know  her,  Phoebe; 
you  call  her. 

MRS.  BLANCHARD.     Don't  you  know  her,  Mrs.  Payne-Dexter? 

MRS.  PAYNE-DEXTER.  I  might  pretend  to.  How  do  you  do? 
[She  bows. 

MRS.  COURTNEY-PAGE  (enters  from  right.  She  is  white-haired 
and  about  fifty-five,  but  she  has  dash  in  her  manner  and  her 
figure  is  stunning  in  a  white  velvet  gown  with  long  sleeves, 
but  very  low  at  the  throat.  She  is  the  type  that  can  be  a  vam 
pire  at  any  age.  Her  jewels  are  pearls,  ropes  of  pearls.  She 
carries  a  black  fan  and  a  batch  of  mail,  among  which  is  a 
black-rimmed  letter).  How  —  do  —  you  —  do?  I  don't 
recall  the  name. 

MRS.  PAYNE-DEXTER.  Mrs.  Payne-Dexter  of  New  York. 
Don't  tell  me,  Mrs.  Courtney-Page,  that  you  have  for 
gotten  me. 

MRS.  COURTNEY-PAGE  (with  poise).  Mrs.  Payne-Dexter,  a 
name  so  well  known?  I  remember  exactly  —  five  years 
ago  at  the  opera  —  your  box  was  next  to  the  Carrolls. 
We  were  their  guests  one  evening  when  my  late  husband 
and  I  were  in  New  York  on  a  wedding  trip. 

MRS.  PAYNE-DEXTER.  Why,  yes,  yes,  of  course,  I  remember 
—  My  friends,  Mrs.  Dorchester,  Mrs.  Blanchard. 

MRS.  BLANCHARD.  How  —  do  —  you  —  do?  Won't  you  sit 
down? 

MRS.  COURTNEY-PAGE.     Yes,  thank  you.     (She  sits)     I  have 
noticed  you,  Mrs.  Blanchard.     Your  cane? 
[She  picks  it  up  courteously  and  hands  it  to  Mrs.  Blanchard. 

MRS.  BLANCHARD  (courteously  appreciative).    Thank  you. 

MRS.  PAYNE-DEXTER.  Mrs.  Dorchester  and  I  have  been 
spending  the  season  in  Palm  Beach. 

MRS.  BLANCHARD.  And  I  came  down  from  St.  Louis  and  had 
the  good  fortune  to  become  acquainted  with  them. 


EVER  YOUNG  133 


MRS.  COURTNEY-PAGE.     Blanchard  of  St.  Louis.     The  name 

is  very  familiar. 
MRS.  BLANCHARD.     My  daughter  married  the  Duke  of  Cau- 

breigh. 
MRS.  COURTNEY-PAGE.     Oh,  yes,  yes,  but  just  lately  —  it 

seems  to  me  I  saw  that  name  just  lately. 
MRS.  BLANCHARD.     No  doubt  you  did.     I  am  celebrating  my 

divorce. 
MRS.  DORCHESTER.     I  think  she  has  a  great  deal  of  courage 

to  face  the  world  alone  voluntarily. 
MRS.  BLANCHARD.     It  is  rejuvenating  to  feel  so  marvelously 

free! 
MRS.  COURTNEY-PAGE.     She  is  quite  right.     Why  should  a 

woman  remain  in  bondage  when  there  is  at  every  turn  a 

new  chance  for  a  better  alliance. 
MRS.    BLANCHARD.     Good   gracious!     Do  you   believe   me 

capable  of  marrying  again  at  my  age? 
MRS.   COURTNEY-PAGE.     Why  not?    A  woman  can  marry 

any  man  she  wants. 
MRS.  DORCHESTER  (mildly).     Oh,  the  man  may  get  the  woman 

he  wants;  Henry  kept  insisting  until  I  married  him,  but 

I    don't    think    it's    the    other    way    round,    do    you, 

Phoebe? 
MRS.  PAYNE-DEXTER  (dominating  manner).    I  don't  know.     I 

worked  hard  for  Thomas,  but  I  got  him. 
MRS.  BLANCHARD.     I  haven't  an  opinion.     The  one  7  wanted 

I  met  only  when  it  was  too  late. 

MRS.  COURTNEY-PAGE.     What  do  you  mean  by  too  late? 
MRS.  BLANCHARD.     After  I  was  married  to  some  one  else. 
MRS.  COURTNEY-PAGE.     But  now  that  you  are  divorced  — 
MRS.   BLANCHARD.     Oh,   it's  too   late  now.     My   romance 

was  over  twenty  years  ago. 
MRS.  DORCHESTER.     Do  you  really  think  a  woman  can  marry 

any  man  she  wants? 
MRS.  COURTNEY-PAGE.     I've  proved  it.     I  was  engaged  three 

times,   married   once,   once  widowed,   and   now   I   have 

another  fiance.     Isn't  that  proof? 


134  EVER  YOUNG 


MRS.  BLANCHARD.  You  are,  if  you  will  pardon  my  frankness, 
a  very  handsome  woman,  Mrs.  Courtney-Page;  such 
attractions  would  not  require  much  further  effort  on  your 
part. 

MRS.  COURTNEY-PAGE.  Thank  you,  but  there  is  a  science 
about  attracting  love  as  there  is  about  everything  else. 
There  hasn't  been  a  moment  of  my  life  when  I  haven't 
been  in  love. 

MRS.  PAYNE-DEXTER  (rather  snortingly).  That's  impossible! 
There  aren't  enough  people  in  the  world  for  that ! 

MRS.  COURTNEY-PAGE  (with  real  tenderness).  Oh,  yes,  there 
are.  As  long  as  you  hold  the  thought  of  love  you  will 
find  that  you  can  love  —  and  as  long  as  you  love  you  will 
attract  it  in  return. 

MRS.  PAYNE-DEXTER.  Where  is  your  home  now,  Mrs. 
Courtney-Page  ? 

MRS.  COURTNEY-PAGE.  Chicago,  but  I  was  bora  in  San 
Francisco.  I  was  Emily  Tarden. 

MRS.  PAYNE-DEXTER.     Emily  Tarden!    Were  you  indeed! 

MRS.  BLANCHARD.  Why,  it  just  seems  yesterday  when  all 
the  magazines  were  full  of  your  photographs. 

MRS.  DORCHESTER.  The  most  beautiful  debutante  on  the 
Western  coast! 

MRS.  COURTNEY-PAGE.  They  did  make  a  fuss  about  it  when 
I  became  engaged  to  Harlow  Bingham  —  I  was  only 
eighteen  then.  When  I  look  back  and  think  what  a 
brilliant  career  I  might  have  had  with  Harlow  —  well  — 
you  know  he  died  —  (she  sighs)  before  we  were  married  — 
an  accident  —  steeple-chase  —  poor  Harlow  (she  uncon 
sciously  fondles  a  strand  of  her  pearls),  he  gave  me  my 
first  pearls. 

MRS.  BLANCHARD.     Magnificent  pearls! 

MRS.  PAYNE-DEXTER  (using  lorgnettes).  I  have  scarcely  been 
able  to  keep  my  eyes  off  them. 

MRS.    COURTNEY-PAGE.     This    strand  —  the    shortest    and    ' 
smallest  —  was  given  to  me  by  Harlow  upon  our  engage 
ment.     He  gave  me  a  solitaire  too,  but  the  pearls  were  a 


EVER  YOUNG  135 


thank-offering  because  I  had  given  up  the  desire  to  go  on 

the  stage  to  marry  him. 

MRS.  DORCHESTER.     Oh,  did  you  want  to  be  an  actress? 
MRS.  COURTNEY-PAGE.     I  have  wanted  nothing  more  all  my 

life. 

MRS.  BLANCHARD.     You  would  have  made  a  good  one  too. 
MRS.    COURTNEY-PAGE.     My    family    opposed    me,    as    all 

families  do. 

MRS.  PAYNE-DEXTER.     They  did  in  those  days. 
MRS.  COURTNEY-PAGE.     So  I  had  to  give  up  the  idea  of  acting 

—  on  the  stage. 

[But  it  is  evident  that  she  has  been  acting  in  real  life  ever 

since. 
MRS.  PAYNE-DEXTER  (in  a  whisper,  looking  out  front).     Look, 

look,  that's  the  man  who  tried  to  flirt  with  me  the  other 

day  at  the  tea  dance  in  the  Cocoanut  Grove. 
MRS.  COURTNEY-PAGE.     Don't  you  know  who  that  is? 

MRS.  PAYNE-DEXTER.       No. 

MRS.  COURTNEY-PAGE.  That's  Beverly  Strawn,  our  best 
seller  novelist. 

MRS.  PAYNE-DEXTER.  Mercy !  Hide  me!  He  must  have 
been  picking  me  out  as  the  dowager  mother-in-law  for  his 
next  novel.. 

MRS.  DORCHESTER.  Did  you  marry  Mr.  Courtney-Page 
after  Mr.  —  what's  his  name  died,  your  first  fiance? 

MRS.  COURTNEY-PAGE.  No,  I  became  engaged  to  Philip 
Craw,  an  Englishman  I  met  in  Egypt.  He  was  on  his 
way  to  South  Africa.  He  had  been  in  diplomatic  service 
in  India  and  had  been  transferred.  He  brought  me  this 
second  strand  —  the  second  largest  and  longest  —  from 
India.  He  went  ahead  to  South  Africa  to  prepare  a 
home,  intending  to  come  back  for  me  —  but  he  died 
of  fever. 
-  MRS.  BLANCHARD.  How  thrillingly  tragic! 

MRS.  DORCHESTER.     I  could  not  have  endured  it. 

MRS.  PAYNE-DEXTER.  And  the  other  strands  —  you  have 
two  more  — 


136  EVER  YOUNG 


MRS.  COURTNEY-PAGE.     This  third  one  was  the  gift  of  my 

husband,  Mr.  Courtney-Page.     I  would  not  let  him  give 

them  to  me  until  after  we  were  married. 
MRS.  DORCHESTER.     That  was  a  wise  precaution.      They  say 

pearls  mean  tears. 

MRS.  PAYNE-DEXTER.     It  is  surprising  that  he  risked  giving 
k   you  pearls  at  all. 
MRS.  COURTNEY-PAGE.     He  was  jealous  of  the  others.     Of 

course,  I  couldn't  throw  the  others  away  —  they  were  so 

costly. 

MRS.  PAYNE-DEXTER.     Naturally  not ! 
MRS.  COURTNEY-PAGE.     So  he  finally  purchased  a  strand  in 

Vienna  —  larger  and  longer  than  the  others. 
MRS.  BLANCHARD.     Then  did  he  die  too? 
MRS.  COURTNEY-PAGE.     Oh,  no,  Mr.  Courtney-Page  was  the 

third  man  I  was  engaged  to,  but  the  only  one  I  married. 

He  died  scarcely  a  year  ago. 
MRS.  DORCHESTER  (takes  some  digestive  tablets  out  of  her  bag 

and  offers  them).     Will  you  have  a  life-preserver?     I  ate 

something  to-night  that  didn't  agree  with  me. 
MRS.  PAYNE-DEXTER  (takes  one).     Thank  you. 
MRS.  DORCHESTER  (offering).     Mrs.  Blanchard? 
MRS.   BLANCHARD.     No,    thanks,   I  don't  need  them    any 

more  since  I  am  taking  the  new  diet. 
MRS.  PAYNE-DEXTER.     What  is  your  new  diet? 

[Mrs.  Dorchester  offers  Mrs.  Courtney-Page  a  tablet.     She 

takes  one.     Mrs.  Dorchester  takes  one. 
MRS.  BLANCHARD.     Nuts,  fruit,  no  meat,  no  bread,  no  hot 

vegetables,  no  coffee,  no  tea. 

MRS.  DORCHESTER.     Have  you  stopped  eating  altogether? 
MRS.  BLANCHARD.     Only  fruit  and  nuts.     I  feel  as  light  as 

a  feather  —  in  another  day  I  shall  walk  and  throw  away 

this  stick! 
MRS.  DORCHESTER.     You  said  in  another  week  you  would 

throw  it  away. 

MRS.  PAYNE-DEXTER.     Now  be  caref ul,  don't  take  risks ! 
MRS.  BLANCHARD.     The  book  says  we  must  not  have  nega- 


EVER  YOUNG  137 


tives  in  our  mind.     I  tell  you  that  if  I  can  have  enough 
faith,  I  shall  walk  alone! 

MRS.  PAYNE-DEXTER.       Oh,  the  book. 

MRS.  BLANCHARD  (handing  book  to  Mrs.  Payne-Dexter). 
"Truth  and  Youth." 

MRS.  PAYNE-DEXTER  (reads).  "The  average  man  and  woman 
of  middle  age  chooses  a  comfortable  chair  and  settles  down 
into  it  with  the  thought  that  life  is  finished  and  it  is  neces 
sary  to  await  the  end.  When  women  see  their  little 
children  grown  to  manhood  and  independent  of  them, 
they  feel  that  their  use  in  life  is  over.  Nothing  is  more 
untrue.  The  grandmother  is  a  free  — " 

MRS.  DORCHESTER  (interrupting  as  she  glances  out  front).  Just 
a  moment,  Phoebe,  excuse  me,  but  what  did  you  say  was 
the  name  of  the  woman  in  jet  —  walking  with  the  aviator 
—  did  she  fly  down  with  him  from  New  York? 

MRS.  COURTNEY-PAGE.  That's  Hilda  Dane,  one  of  the 
Follies.  They  say  she  has  her  skin  insured  when  she's 
on  the  beach. 

MRS.  BLANCHARD.  I  have  never  seen  her  skin.  She  white 
washes  it  and  her  lips  are  thick  with  paint.  Yesterday  on 
the  beach  she  wore  a  lemon-colored  woolen  cape  with  a 
big  sable  collar  and  every  diamond  that  has  ever  been 
given  to  her. 

MRS.  DORCHESTER.     Is  she  married  to  the  aviator? 

MRS.  PAYNE-DEXTER.     Don't  ask  absurd  questions,  Agnes. 

MRSk  DORCHESTER.      Oh! 

MRS.  PAYNE-DEXTER  (reading).  "The  grandmother  is  a  free 
woman,  she  has  a  new  youth.  She  has  the  wisdom  of 
experience  with  which  to  experiment  for  greater  wisdom." 
Agnes,  you  must  read  this  book;  it  will  stir  you  up  —  your 
very  mind  is  turning  to  wool. 

MRS.  DORCHESTER.  I  have  always  been  more  domestic  than 
you,  Phoebe. 

MRS.  PAYNE-DEXTER.  Domestic!  Haven't  I  done  my  share? 
Haven't  I  run  a  house  in  New  York,  a  house  in  Newport, 
a  house  in  London,  an  apartment  in  Paris;  I  even  had  a 


138  EVER  YOUNG 


palace  one  season  in  Venice.  No,  it  is  not  domesticity 
that  is  making  you  old;  it  is  mental  lethargy. 

MRS.  COURTNEY-PAYNE.  That  is  an  enemy  to  youth,  mental 
lethargy.  I  refuse  to  have  it! 

MRS.  PAYNE-DEXTER.  Mrs.  Dorchester  doesn't  live  for  her 
self  any  more.  When  she  is  at  home  she  is  a  slave  to  her 
grandchildren;  when  she  is  away  she  scarcely  can  take 
time  from  the  wool  to  look  at  a  palm  tree. 

MRS.  DORCHESTER  (looking  away).  I  can  knit  without  look 
ing. 

MRS.  PAYNE-DEXTER.  I  am  more  selfish.  I  let  my  children 
and  grandchildren  alone.  I  do  not  spend  my  evenings 
knitting  baby  socks.  I  have  my  opera  box,  I  entertain 
distinguished  foreign  visitors.  I  have  my  club  com 
mittees,  my  charities  and  I  am  studying  to  add  to  my 
husband's  collection  of  paintings  —  as  a  memorial  to 
him  —  and  I  am  taking  up  Spanish  so  that  I  may  spend 
next  season  in  Buenos  Aires.  But  you,  Agnes,  you  make 
your  children  dependent  upon  you  —  you  are  always 
nursing  some  grandchild  through  something. 

MRS.  DORCHESTER.  But  when  they  are  ill,  I  must  help 
them. 

MRS.  PAYNE-DEXTER.  You  think  you  must  and  they  let 
you  think  it  because  they  don't  want  to  hurt  your  feelings 
by  letting  you  know  they  don't  need  you.  You  take  care 
of  a  grandchild  so  its  own  mother  can  go  and  play  bridge; 
you  save  your  son  a  nurse's  bill  while  he  spends  the  money 
playing  polo  at  the  country  club. 

MRS.  DORCHESTER.  But  it  isn't  a  happy  thought  not  to  be 
needed. 

MRS.  BLANCHARD.  You  were  telling  us  about  your  pearls, 
Mrs.  Courtney-Page.  Where  did  you  get  the  fourth 
strand? 

MRS.  COURTNEY-PAGE.  The  fourth,  the  largest  and  longest, 
is  the  gift  of  my  new  fiance.  I  am  down  here  waiting  for 
time  to  pass;  we  shall  be  married  as  soon  as  it  seems 
correct. 


EVER  YOUNG  139 


MRS.  PAYNE-DEXTER  (looking  out  front).     Dear  me,  there's 

Mrs.  Wallace  Morton  in  another  gown  and  as  usual  no 

petticoat. 

MRS.  COURTNEY-PAGE.     I  think  she  does  wear  one! 
MRS.  BLANCHARD.     Aren't  you  lucky  to  find  a  fiance  again? 

I  am  afraid  I  couldn't  bring  myself  to  care  for  any  man  as 

much  as  I  have  cared  for  one  in  the  past. 

MRS.  DORCHESTER.       Nor  I. 

MRS.  PAYNE-DEXTER.     Hump!    Men  aren't  worth  bothering 

about. 
MRS.  COURTNEY-PAGE.     I  was  so  lost  without  marriage  com- 

Epanionship  that  when  I  was  in  Paris  last  autumn  I  picked 
out  the  most  eligible  man  I  could  find.  He  is  quite  old 
but  very  nice  and  has  valuable  mines  in  Australia. 

MRS.  PAYNE-DEXTER.     Is  he  a  Frenchman? 

MRS.  COURTNEY-PAGE.  No,  an  American,  but  he  hasn't 
been  in  this  country  since  he  was  sent  to  the  American 
legation  in  China.  He  has  had  an  exciting  life.  He  was 
taken  prisoner  in  the  Boxer  Rebellion  and  was  reported 
missing  for  years,  but  a  fafthful  Chinese  servant  smuggled 
him  to  Australia. 

MRS.  BLANCHARD  (begins  to  tremble;  her  hands  quiver  as  they 
clutch  her  cane).  Your  fiance  —  his  name? 

MRS.  COURTNEY-PAGE.  Oliver  Trent  —  president  of  the 
Australian  Mining  Company  of  — 

MRS.  BLANCHARD  (with  a  gasp  of  anguish  loosens  her  hold  upon 
her  cane;  it  falls  unheeded).  Oliver  Trent  —  you  said 
Oliver  Trent? 

MRS.  DORCHESTER  (blandly).  Why,  wasn't  that  the  name  of 
the  man  you  loved  —  wasn't  that  the  name,  Phoebe? 

MRS.  COURTNEY-PAGE.  The  man,  Mrs.  Blanchard  —  I  do 
not  understand. 

MRS.  PAYNE-DEXTER  (trying  to  relieve  the  situation).  Mrs. 
Blanchard  has  been  telling  us  about  a  friend  of  hers  who 
had  been  lost  in  the  Boxer  Rebellion.  She  thought  he 
had  died.  No  doubt  it  is  a  consolation  to  her  to  know 
that  he  still  lives. 


140  EVER  YOUNG 


MRS.  BLANCH ARD  (wilted,  old-looking  and  speaking  with  an 
effort).  No,  Mrs.  Courtney-Page,  I  scarcely  can  bear  it 
that  he  lives.  I  have  held  him  in  my  heart  as  one  dead  for 
twenty  years.  I  have  lived  on  the  thought  that  he  loved 
me.  He  loved  me  once,  but  I  know  now  that  men  cannot 
be  true.  When  he  went  to  China  he  put  me  out  of  his 
mind  forever.  He  has  forgotten  me  for  younger  and 
handsomer  women. 

MRS.  PAYNE-DEXTER.  Hump!  I  wouldn't  let  it  worry  me! 
Men  aren't  worth  such  lifelong  adoration.  You  look 
about  and  find  some  one  else. 

MRS.  DORCHESTER.  Perhaps  Mrs.  Courtney-Page  will  give 
him  up  if  we  tell  her  what  he  means  to  you. 

MRS.  BLANCHARD  (fiercely).  I  want  my  own  —  not  what  is 
cast  off. 

MRS.  COURTNEY-PAGE  (drawing  her  chair  closer  to  Mrs. 
Blanchard  and  speaking  gently).  You  want  me  to  give 
him  up?  (She  fondles  the  largest  strand  of  pearls  reluctantly) 
That  would  be  difficult  to  do.  It  wasn't  easy  to  win  him. 
I  had  to  use  all  the  art  I  have  learned  in  past  experiences 
to  get  him.  He  has  never  been  married  and  is  a  little 
afraid.  If  I  gave  him  up,  are  you  sure  he  would  re 
member  you? 

MRS.  BLANCHARD  (in  anguish  of  spirit  but  under  control).  No, 
do  not  trouble.  I  shall  have  to  bear  it.  I  feel  quite  blind  — 
as  if  I  had  been  struck  on  the  head  —  but  maybe  it  is  just 
my  heart.  You  see,  he  and  I  were  very  much  in  love, 
but  I  was  married  and  he  had  to  go  away.  He  promised 
not  to  forget,  but  he  was  young;  I  shouldn't  have  believed 
him.  That  last  day  before  he  went  I  met  him  clan 
destinely  in  the  Park.  I  cut  off  a  bit  of  my  hair  that  day. 
It  was  golden  then,  like  golden  amber,  he  said,  and  he  put 
it  into  an  amber  locket  he  wore  on  his  watch  charm. 

MRS.  DORCHESTER  (throws  her  knitting  aside  and  lets  the  wool 
roll  to  the  floor).  I  remember,  I  remember,  amber  locket, 
from  a  watch  charm  —  I  have  it  here  —  I've  had  it  twenty 
years !  made  into  a  bracelet  —  (she  takes  off  the  bracelet) 


EVER  YOUNG  141 

My  son  brought  it  home  from  the  Philippines  —  it  was 

given  to  him  by  a  Chinese  servant  — 
MRS.  BLANCHARD  (in  extreme  excitement).     The  locket  — 
MRS.  COURTNEY-PAGE.     A  Chinese  servant  — 
MRS.  DORCHESTER  (excitedly).     Yes,  the  very  one  you  said 

rescued  him!     I  remember  it  all  now.     How  stupid  of  me 

not  to  think  of  it  before,  but  as  Phoebe  says,  my  mind's 

all  wool  —  that  Chinese  servant  — 

MRS.  BLANCHARD.      Yes,  yCS,  gO  On 

MRS.  DORCHESTER  (speedily).  You  know  the  Boxers  stormed 
the  Legation.  He  fought  desperately  and  valiantly  — 
the  Chinese  servant  described  all  that  —  how  he  was 
taken  prisoner  and  tortured  so  he  almost  lost  his  mind. 
At  night  he  raved  in  delirium.  He  called  a  woman's 
name  but  there  was  no  one  of  that  name  in  the  legation  — 
my  son  told  me  but  I  have  such  a  wretched  memory  for 
names  —  but  it  wasn't  a  real  name  that  one  could  identify 
—  it  must  have  been  a  nickname  — 

MRS.  BLANCHARD.     Was  it  Dee-Dee? 

MRS.  DORCHESTER  (pouncingly) .  Dee-Dee,  Dee-Dee !  That's 
what  it  was !  Oh,  my  stupid  head ! 

MRS.  BLANCHARD  (pathetically).     It  meant  "dear." 

MRS.  PAYNE-DEXTER  (to  Mrs.  Dorchester).  Why  have  you 
kept  this  from  us  all  this  time? 

MRS.  DORCHESTER  (gaining  assurance).  How  could  I  know 
my  son's  story  was  about  Mrs.  Blanchard  until  she  men 
tioned  the  watch  charm?  But  now  it  all  comes  back  to 
me.  At  night  in  delirium  he  called  this  name  —  how  he 
loved  this  woman,  he  took  the  amber  locket  and  opened 
it  and  kissed  the  blond  lock  of  hair  and  he  treasured  it  as 
nothing  else  he  had.  He  treasured  it  so  highly  that  he 
gave  it  to  his  Chinese  servant  to  keep  for  him  —  for  fear 
they  would  rob  him  of  it.  They  took  his  money  and 
everything  else  he  had,  but  the  servant  kept  the  amber 
safely,  but  —  but  — 

MRS.  BLANCHARD  (in  rapt  attention).  But  then  how  did  you 
get  it? 


142  EVER  YOUNG 


MRS.   DORCHESTER.     That's  just  it  —  I'll  tell  you  how- 
oh,  my  stupid  memory !     Phoebe,  stop  fuddling  with  your 
door-key  —  you  distract  me !    The  amber  —  the  Chinese 
servant  smuggled  him  into  a  boat  — 

MRS.  BLANCHARD.     Who  was  smuggled  into  the  boat? 

MRS.  DORCHESTER.     Mr.  What's  his  name  —  your  — 

MRS.  BLANCHARD.     Oliver  Trent. 

MRS.  DORCHESTER.  Yes,  into  the  boat  —  and  in  the  excite 
ment  of  concealing  him  behind  some  kegs  —  the  ship 
began  to  move  and  the  Chinese  servant  had  to  run 
to  get  off,  and  in  running  he  forgot  to  give  up  the 
amber  locket  —  and  so  he  kept  it  —  he  kept  it  as  a 
talisman  and  a  few  years  later  when  he  served  my  son 
in  the  Philippines  he  gave  it  to  him  as  a  talisman  when 
my  son  was  very  ill  with  fever  —  and  my  son  became 
superstitious  about  it  and  had  it  set  in  a  bracelet  for 
me  as  my  protection,  and  now  I  shall  give  it  to  you  — 
for  it  is  your  talisman,  Mrs.  Blanchard,  a  talisman  of  his 
undying  love! 

[Mrs.  Blanchard  takes  the  bracelet  but  is  incapable  of  speech. 
She  raises  it  to  her  lips  and  a  light  of  inspiration  comes  into 
her  eyes. 

MRS.  COURTNEY-PAGE  (going  on  with  the  fabrication).  And 
that  is  why  I  had  such  difficulty  making  him  care  for  me. 
He  told  me  about  his  first  love  —  he  spoke  of  her  as  Dee- 
dee  and  he  told  me  that  when  he  lost  the  amber  he  felt  that 
she  had  gone  out  of  his  life  forever.  He  said  that  she  was 
married  and  it  was  unlawful  for  him  to  think  of  her  —  but 
he  has  never  forgotten  —  he  told  me  he  would  love  her 
always  —  and  when  I  tell  him  of  you,  Mrs.  Blanchard, 
he  will  come  to  you  at  once,  for  you  have  been  right  — 
his  love  has  been  yours  and  is  yours  still.  I  think  you 
ought  to  have  these  pearls! 

MRS.  BLANCHARD  (her  eyes  illumined,  her  body  stronger).  No, 
no,  thank  you  —  I  don't  want  them  —  I  —  I  —  have  this 
—  (She  holds  the  locket  in  her  hands  and  rises,  forgetting 
her  cane)  Excuse  me,  ladies,  if  I  go  to  my  room  —  I  — 


EVER  YOUNG  143 


I  —  have  had  my  answer  out  of  the  silence  —  and  I'm  a 

little  —  unstrung. 

[She  walks  out  right  with  great  dignity  and  composure,  and 

the  light  in  her  eyes  is  a  triumph  of  youth. 
MRS.  PAYNE-DEXTER  (looking  after  in   awe).     Without  her 

cane! 

MRS.  COURTNEY-PAGE.     Don't  remind  her ! 
MRS.  DORCHESTER  (sighing).     Poor  dear,  poor  dear! 
MRS.   PAYNE-DEXTER.     Was  that  all  true  what  you  said, 

Agnes?     I  never  heard  you  talk  so  fast  in  all  your  life  — 

and  how  you  suddenly  got  such  a  memory  —  you  never 

told  me  anything  about  the  amber  locket  and  you've  worn 

it  forever,  it  seems  to  me! 

MRS.  DORCHESTER.     Father  gave  it  to  me  on  my  twenty- 
first  birthday  to  save  a  lock  of  my  blond  hair.     I  risked 

the  chance  that  mine  was  a  duplicate  of  hers. 
MRS.  PAYNE-DEXTER.     And  all  you  said  was  a  lie? 
MRS.  COURTNEY-PAGE.     It  doesn't  matter.     We  shall  make  it 

true. 
MRS.  PAYNE-DEXTER.     But  when  she  finds  out  that  you  have 

deceived  her  — 
MRS.   COURTNEY-PAGE.     She  will  never  find  out.      I  shall 

warn  him  to  hide  away  his  amber  locket  on  his  watch 

charm. 

MRS.  DORCHESTER.     Does  he  still  wear  it? 
MRS.  COURTNEY-PAGE.     Yes,  and  many  other  trophies  from 

other  loves ;  they  say  he  has  been  a  great  beau  — 
MRS.  PAYNE-DEXTER.     The  outrageous  flirt ! 
MRS.  DORCHESTER.     Poor  dear  Mrs.  Blanchard!     I  thought 

she  would  die  —  I  was  afraid  she  was  dying.     I  had  to  say 

something  to  bring  her  to. 
MRS.  PAYNE-DEXTER.     But  what  have  you  gained  by  these 

lies? 

MRS.  COURTNEY-PAGE.     Does  she  not  walk? 
MRS.  PAYNE-DEXTER  (with  awe).     Yes,  it  is  a  miracle! 
MRS.  COURTNEY-PAGE.     Merely  a  miracle  of  the  realization 

of  love ! 


144  EVER  YOUNG 


MRS.  PAYNE-DEXTER.     But  it  is  built  on  a  false  belief!    He 

has  not  been  true  to  her. 
MRS.   COURTNEY-PAGE.     Mrs.  Payne-Dexter,  I  have  never 

questioned  the  depth  of  any  one's  love  for  me.     That 

which  counts  is,  after  all,  only  that  which  is  in  our  own 

hearts.    If  Mrs.  Blanchard  is  convinced  of  his  love  —  that 

is  all  that  is  really  necessary. 

MRS.  PAYNE-DEXTER.     But  when  you  marry  him  — 
MRS.  COURTNEY-PAGE.     I  shall  not  marry  him  —  I  shall  only 

keep  the  pearls  — 

MRS.  BLANCHARD.     But  if  you  love  him  — 
MRS.  COURTNEY-PAGE.    As  for  that  —  7,  always,  can  find 

some  one  else. 

MRS.  DORCHESTER.     Gracious!    My  wool  is  a  mess! 
MRS.  PAYNE-DEXTER.    You'd  better  give  up  knitting,  Agnes, 

and  turn  to  story  telling  —  you've  quite  surprised  me  with 

your  sudden  brilliancy.     (She  beckons  off  stage  left)     Bell 

boy,  you  may  have  these  glasses  — 
MRS.  DORCHESTER.     Your  diamond  platinum  lorgnettes! 
MRS.  PAYNE-DEXTER.     Hump!    Do  you  think  that  /  have  to 

manufacture  a  love  affair  to  get  rid  of  my  crutches? 
MRS.   DORCHESTER   (scarcely  able  to  grasp  the  idea).     She 

walked  without  her  cane! 
MRS.  COURTNEY-PAGE  (with  a  romantic  smile).     Oh,  to  stay 

young,  one  must  love! 

CURTAIN 


FOR  DISTINGUISHED  SERVICE 

FLORENCE  CLAY  KNOX 

FLORENCE  CLAY  KNOX  was  born  in  Cedar  Falls,  Iowa,  and 
was  educated  at  the  Stanly  Hall  Finishing  School  and  the 
University  of  Minnesota. 

She  is  an  amateur  actress  of  ability  and  was  one  of  the 
founders  of  the  Waterloo  Little  Theatre.  Her  play  "The 
China  Guinea  Pig"  won  the  Drama  League  Prize. 


FOR  DISTINGUISHED  SERVICE 

A  COMEDY  IN  ONE  ACT 


BY  FLORENCE  CLAY  KNOX 


Characters 

Miss  KATHARINE  BURTON, 

a  young  woman  of  the  "smart  set" 

MRS.  JIM  HARDING  (otherwise  Ethel)       .     .     .    her  friend 
MARY  .  her  maid 


COPYRIGHT,  1918,  BY  FLORENCE  CLAY  KNOX 

All  right  a  reserved 

No  performance  of  this  play,  either  amateur  or  professional,  maybe  given  without  special 
arrangement  with  the  author's  representative,  Norman  Lee  Swartout,  Summit,  N.  J. 


FOR  DISTINGUISHED  SERVICE 

SCENE.  The  exquisitely  appointed,  rose  and  ivory  boudoir  of 
Miss  Katharine  Burton.  In  the  center  stands  a  long  narrow 
reading  table.  A  scarf  of  rose  brocade,  draped  across  it,  with 
one  end  trailing  gracefully  to  the  floor,  offsets  the  severity  sug 
gested  by  the  tall  twin  candlesticks.  At  the  left  of  the  table,  and 
a  little  in  front,  is  a  gossipy  little  rocking  chair,  with  cushions 
and  arms.  At  the  right,  a  chaise  longue.  At  the  further  side  of 
the  chaise  longue,  convenient  to  the  occupant's  elbow,  is  a  desk 
'phone.  A  huge  bunch  of  violets,  whose  basket  container  and 
gauze  bow  proclaim  the  fashionable  florist,  stands  upon  a  small 
table  or  pedestal  at  the  extreme  right.  An  entrance  at  the  right 
—  back,  another  chair,  extreme  left,  are  among  the  essential 
furnishings. 

The  curtain,  rising,  discloses  Miss  Katharine  Burton, 
attired  in  adorable  neglige,  comfortably  and  gracefully  en 
sconced  among  the  rose-colored  cushions  of  the  chaise  longue, 
reading.  Miss  Burton  is  still  young  —  which  means  not 
too  young  —  and  beautiful.  An  ease  of  manner,  just  touched 
with  weariness,  bespeaks  the  woman  of  the  world,  but  fails  to 
disguise  the  fact  that  Miss  Burton  is  a  very  genuine  sort  of  per 
son,  preserving,  among  the  frivolities  of  her  set,  her  own  ideals, 
and  independence  of  thought  and  action.  She  possesses  a  fine 
sense  of  humor  and  a  dauntless  spirit  that  asks  no  quarter. 

A  bell  rings  off  stage,  and  Mary,  the  trimmest  of  little  maids, 
enters,  bearing  a  huge  confectioner's  box,  tied  with  a  crimson 
ribbon,  and  a  note.  She  cornea  around  the  table,  and  stands  at 
Miss  Burton's  side,  holding  out  the  box  for  inspection. 

KATHARINE.      Oh  —  Oh  —  Mary  —     One  fine  little  box  — 
(She  admires  it  without  rising.    Mary  places  the  box  on  the 
table  and  waits  expectantly  for  further  developments)  I'm  too 


150  FOR  DISTINGUISHED  SERVICE 

busy  now,  but  there  will  be  a  grand  opening  soon  and  then 
I'll  send  for  you. 

MARY.  Oh,  thank  you.  (She  gazes  wistfully  at  the  box) 
Don't  you  just  love  chocolates? 

KATHARINE.  Yes,  I  do.  Especially  when  a  very  nice  person 
sends  them  to  me. 

MARY.     Yes'm.     I  suppose  that  is  nice. 

[She  lingers,  looking  first  at  the  box  and  then  at  the  note  in  Miss 
Burton9 s  hand,  but  receiving  no  encouragement,  heaves  a  sigh 
and  leaves. 

Katharine  watches  her  go  —  rises  —  listens  —  and  waits  till 
certain  that  Mary  has  quite  entirely  disappeared.    She  takes 
a  precautionary  survey  of  the  room,  then  curls  up  in  the  chaise 
longue  and  opens  the  note  in  the  manner  of  one  handing  herself1 
a  great  treat. 

KATHARINE  (reading  out  loud).  "Dear  Katharine:  —  Of 
course  I  know  it  would  be  highly  improper  to  write  you  a 
note  —  out  of  a  clear  sky,  so  I'm  sending  the  sweetmeats 
for  an  excuse.  I  believe  this  is  what  you  call  tossing  a  bone 
to  Mrs.  Grundy.  And  the  reason  I  write  to  you  is  a  purely 
selfish  one.  I  know  the  sympathetic,  soul-satisfying  little 
note  I  will  receive  in  reply.  Of  course  you  may  scold  a 
little,  but  one  learns  to  take  the  bitter  with  the  sweet,  and 
you  wouldn't  have  the  heart  to  make  it  all  bitter.  I  will 
see  you,  of  course,  at  the  Martin's  house  party? 

Till  then  — 

Jim." 

(She  kisses  the  note  shyly  and  holds  it  as  if  afraid  its  contents 
might  escape)  " Till  then—  "  Thursday,  Friday  —  Two j 
whole  days  —  Oh,  whatever  are  we  coming  to?  (She1 
dreams  for  a  moment  and  then  shrugs  her  shoulders)  Oh,j 
well,  it's  no  more  than  his  wife  does  all  the  time.  Whyj 
should  I  care?  (The  desk  9 phone  beside  her  rings.  She, 
takes  down  the  receiver)  Hello  —  Yes,  this  is  Missj 
—  Oh,  hello,  Jim.  .  .  .  Fine,  thank  you.  I'm  just, 
about  to  open  the  chocolates.  Really,  Jim,  thrown 
bones  to  Mrs.  Grundy  if  you  must,  but  you  needn't] 


FOR  DISTINGUISHED  SERVICE  151 

throw  such  big  ones.  You're  liable  to  kill  the  poor 
woman.  .  .  .  What?  Oh,  I  wish  she  were  dead  too. 
Thank  you,  anyway.  .  .  .  You  insist  on  written  thanks? 
.  .  .  Very  well.  But  I  shall  wait  till  I've  eaten  the  choco 
lates.  I  intend  to  scold  and  I  can't  be  severe  when  my 
mouth  is  watering.  .  .  .  Yes,  of  course  I'm  going.  Won't 
it  be  splendid?  Ideal  place  for  a  house  party  and  such 
grand  weather.  .  .  .  Ride  over  with  you?  Oh,  I'd  love  to. 
How  far  is  it?  .  .  .  Really?  .  .  .  Does  it  appeal  to  me? 
A  sixty-mile  ride  in  the  moonlight  with  you  and  Ethel? 
Why  Jim,  you  know  I'd  love  it.  ...  What?  .  .  .  You 
say  Ethel  is  going  earlier?  ...  I  see.  .  .  .  Just  you  and 
I.  ...  Why,  wait  a  minute,  let  me  think.  .  .  .  Yes,  it 
appeals  just  as  much,  but  .  .  .  No,  I'm  not  prim.  Don't 
call  me  that.  .  .  .  Listen  —  I'll  prove  it  to  you.  I'd 
rather  take  that  ride  with  you  than  —  than  anything  I 
ever  did  in  all  my  life.  Does  that  sound  prim?  (She  listens 
to  a  reply  that  pleases  her  and  yet  makes  her  shake  her  head) 
Jim,  hush.  You  don't  mean  a  thing  you're  saying.  .  .  . 
Jim,  please.  I  won't  listen.  I  can't  go  with  you.  .  .  .  No, 
this  is  final.  No  use  to  call  again.  .  .  .  Very  well,  if  I  do 
change  my  mind,  I'll  let  you  know.  Good-by.  (She 
hangs  up  the  receiver  but  continues  talking  to  the  phone) 
And  maybe  I  will,  maybe  I  will.  Who  cares,  anyway? 
(A  bell  rings  off  stage  and  a  moment  later  Mary  enters  with 
a  visiting  card,  which  she  hands  to  Miss  Burton)  Ethel  — 
Mercy  me  —  (She  hesitates  a  moment)  Tell  Mrs.  Harding 
to  come  right  up.  (Exit  Mary.  Katharine  conceals  the 
note  in  her  dress.  She  picks  up  the  box  of  chocolates 
nervously,  as  if  to  remove  it,  and  then  puts  it  down  again, 
smiling) 

Feeding  Mrs.  Harding  on  Mr.  Harding's  chocolates  strikes 
me  funny.  I  must  be  depraved. 

[Enter  Mrs.  Jim  Harding.  She  is  also  still  young,  and 
making  a  very  evident  effort  to  remain  so.  She  is  dressed  in 
the  height  of  fashion,  groomed  to  the  point  of  hardness,  and 
daringly  rouged.  She  wears  long  earrings,  carries  a  "  Vanity 


152  FOR  DISTINGUISHED  SERVICE 

Box"  and  her  voice  has  the  nervous  tension  of  a  woman  who 
is  breaking  all  the  speed  laws  in  her  mad  rush  through  life. 

ETHEL.  Well,  my  dear,  for  goodness  sakes  —  Are  you  ill  or 
lazy? 

KATHARINE.  Lazy  —  blissfully  lazy.  Throw  off  that  per 
fectly  stunning  wrap  and  make  yourself  comfy. 

ETHEL.  Thanks,  I  will,  but  I  mustn't  stay  long.  (She  crosses 
stage,  throws  her  coat  over  chair  at  extreme  left,  and  seats  her 
self  in  the  little  rocking  chair.  Suddenly  she  spies  the  choco 
lates)  My  word  —  What  do  Tsee?  Is  it  a  steamer  trunk? 

KATHARINE.  You  see  a  box  of  chocolates,  my  dear,  a  regular 
box. 

ETHEL.     Oh,  regular  —    Dear  me,  how  regular? 

KATHARINE.  Well,  that  all  depends.  Some  people  would 
even  call  it  slightly  irregular,  I  suppose.  Anyway,  you're 
in  luck,  for  I  was  just  about  to  open  them.  We'll  have  a 
gorgeous  time,  gorging  chocholates  and  gossiping.  Don't 
you  love  to  gossip  and  gorge? 

ETHEL.  Do  I?  Let's  pretend  we're  sixteen.  Talk  about 
our  beaux  and  tell  all  our  secrets. 

KATHARINE.     Very  well. 

[She  proceeds  to  the  opening  of  the  box. 

ETHEL.     To  begin  with,  who  sent  you  that  box  orchocolates? 

KATHARINE.     Don't  you  wish  you  knew? 

ETHEL.  Well,  I'll  say  he's  either  very  young,  very  old,  or 
very  much  in  love. 

KATHARINE.  Really,  how  interesting!  Because  he's  cer 
tainly  not  young,  and  he's  not  old.  So  he  must  be  very 
much  in  love.  I  haven't  been  at  all  sure  before. 

ETHEL.     Come,  come,  who  is  he?     Don't  be  a  clam. 

KATHARINE.     Maybe  I  bought  them  myself.    I  do  sometimes. 

ETHEL.  Doesn't  look  like  a  box  you'd  buy  yourself.  Some 
how  or  other,  it  smacks  of  Romance. 

[Katharine  passes  the  chocolates,  helps  herself,  and  places 
the  box  on  the  table  between  them.  Ethel  exhibits  a  deep  Yove 
for  chocolates,  helps  herself  often  and  eats  with  keen  relish. 

KATHARINE.     Chocolates  are  romantic,  aren't  they?     Now 


FOR  DISTINGUISHED  SERVICE  153 

there's  nothing  romantic  about  gumdrops,  or  licorice 
sticks.  You'd  never  ask  me  who  sent  those.  But  choco 
lates  —  Ah  —  Mystery  and  Romance ! 

ETHEL.  That's  right.  Chocolates  and  violets.  The  violet 
stage  of  an  affair  really  succeeds  the  chocolate  stage  and  is 
more  violent.  Violent  violets  —  how's  that  for  a  —  Why 
—  Katharine  Burton  —  there  are  violets.  Now  I  sniff 
something  interesting.  Out  with  it  at  once.  Who  is  he? 

KATHARINE.  Who  is  he?  Oh,  anybody  —  nobody.  (She 
pauses  a  moment  and  gives  Ethel  a  look  of  keenest  scrutiny) 
But  I  have  a  secret.  I've  half  a  mind  to  tell  you.  Do 
you  want  to  hear  it? 

ETHEL.  Do  I?  Well,  you  know  me.  Wait  till  I  find  a  big 
one  with  gummy  insides.  (She  searches  the  box  industri 
ously)  Here  we  are.  Proceed.  Isn't  this  bliss? 

KATHARINE.     Ethel,  I  believe  I'm  in  love. 

ETHEL.  In  love?  Not  you?  After  all  these  years?  Well,  I 
never. 

KATHARINE.  Of  course,  if  I'm  going  to  have  my  advanced 
age  thrown  at  my  head  you  can't  expect  me  to  be  very 
eloquent.  Besides,  I'm  not  joking. 

ETHEL.  My  dear,  a  thousand  pardons.  If  you'll  move  that 
box  nearer,  I  won't  talk  so  much.  (She  draws  the  box  nearer, 
and  selects  a  fresh  piece)  Tell  me  more.  It  isn't  Melville 
Shaw,  is  it?  After  all  these  ye — 

[She  hurriedly  plunges  a  chocolate  in  her  mouth  and  smothers 
the  last  ivord. 

KATHARINE.  No,  it  isn't  Mel  —  after  all  —  these  —  years. 
I  wish  it  were.  This  man  is  already  married. 

ETHEL.  Katharine  —  not  you?  In  love  with  a  married  man? 
Oh,  this  is  the  funniest  thing  I  ever  heard.  (She  throws 
back  her  head  and  laughs  with  unfeigned  amusement)  Why, 
my  dear,  there's  hope  for  you  yet. 

KATHARINE  (still  observing  Ethel  closely).  He's  married,  and 
his  wife  is  a  friend  of  mine. 

ETHEL.  Wait "a  minute.  Can't  you  see  I'm  gasping?  (She 
composes  herself  with  an  effort  and  shakes  her  head  in  mock 


154  FOR  DISTINGUISHED  SERVICE 

solemnity.)  Katharine,  Katharine,  my  poor  young  friend. 
When  we  Puritans  decide  to  step  down  off  our  little  pedes 
tals  we  certainly  come  off  with  both  feet. 

KATHARINE.  I  haven't  come  off  my  pedestal  at  all.  I'm 
just  squirming  a  little. 

ETHEL.  Squirming?  You  are  hopping  around.  And  you 
can't  do  that  on  one  small  pedestal.  Better  step  down 
gracefully  before  you  tumble  off  and  mess  things  up.  Does 
his  wife  suspect  you?  Is  she  jealous? 

KATHARINE.  No,  not  yet.  She  is  too  taken  up  with  her  own 
affairs  to  notice  or  care  what  her  husband  is  doing,  and  she 
has  the  modern  viewpoint,  like  you. 

ETHEL.  Good.  And  isn't  that  an  argument  in  favor  of  it? 
I'll  take  another  gummy  one  on  that.  Well,  how  about 
him?  Is  he  likely  to  want  to  get  a  divorce  and  stir  things 
up,  man  fashion? 

KATHARINE.  Oh,  Ethel,  how  heartless  you  are  about  it!  It 
hasn't  gone  nearly  so  far  as  that  —  but  it  terrifies  me  to 
hear  you  talk  so  plainly  about  such  awfulness.  Does 
marriage  mean  so  little  to  you? 

ETHEL.  Little  nothing.  It  means  this  —  and  this  —  and 
this.  (She  points  to  various  expensive  items  of  her  costume) 
It  means  a  bank  account  and  an  unassailable  position  in 
society,  where  I  can  do  as  I  please,  and  nobody  dares  say 
a  word.  And  besides  all  that  —  Jim  and  I  are  excellent 
friends.  We  get  along  better  than  most.  Only  we  make 
no  pretenses.  We  each  live  our  own  lives  comfortably. 

KATHARINE.  But,  Ethel,  are  you  sure  Jim  is  so  comfortable? 
Of  course  I  know  he  is  head  over  ears  in  all  sorts  of  men's 
affairs.  But  he  does  not  flirt  with  other  women.  But  look 
at  you.  You  know  very  well  that  Jim  nearly  came  to 
blows  with  Dick  Farwell  over  you,  not  more  than  six 
months  ago.  And  here  you  are,  acting  scandalously  with 
Tommy  Andrews,  if  I  do  say  so. 

ETHEL.  Oh,  Katharine,  Tommy  is  a  darling!  He's  a  darling. 
Why,  Jim  himself  hasn't  the  heart  to  ask  me  to  give  up 
Tommy.  He  just  said,  "Have  a  good  time,  Ethel,  only 


FOR  DISTINGUISHED  SERVICE  155 

don't  bring  disgrace  upon  an  old  and  honored  name."    And 
of  course  I  don't  intend  to.    Have  you  seen  Tom's  new  car? 

KATHARINE.     No,  I  haven't. 

ETHEL.  It's  wonderful.  He  designed  it  himself  and  no  one 
has  ever  ridden  in  it  —  but  he  and  I.  You  know  that's 
what  appeals  to  me  in  him.  Sweet  little  romantic  things, 
you  know,  and  so  —  so  respectful.  You  know  I'm  awfully 
romantic. 
[She  sighs  and  takes  a  huge  bite  of  chocolate. 

KATHARINE.       I  SCC. 

ETHEL.  And  Jim  isn't.  There  isn't  a  romantic  molecule  in 
his  whole  system.  And  my  nature  craves  that  sort  of 
thing.  I  must  have  it.  I  —  I  wish  you  wouldn't  look  at 
me  in  that  tone  of  voice. 

KATHARINE.  I  didn't  even  know  I  was  looking  at  you.  I'm 
just  bewildered.  I'm  really  trying  to  see  it  your  way. 

ETHEL.  It's  all  in  your  point  of  view.  Now  listen.  Your 
idea  of  marriage  is  the  old-fashioned  one.  Two  people 
marry,  and  after  that  they  own  each  other.  Each  must 
give  the  other  a  strict  account  for  everything  he  says,  or 
does,  or  thinks,  forever  and  ever,  till  Death  them  do  —  do 
separate.  Isn't  that  horrible?  Why  is  it  all  married  people 
don't  hate  each  other?  Now  my  idea  of  marriage  is  this. 
Two  people  agree  to  live  together  and  be  jolly  good  pals, 
and  each  says  to  the  other,  "  Now  we'll  pool  our  interests, 
but  we'll  neither  of  us  infringe  on  the  other's  personal 
liberty  in  any  way."  So  Jim  goes  off  on  his  precious  excur 
sions  —  goodness  knows  where  —  I  don't  —  and  I  cer 
tainly  don't  pout  about  it.  And  when  I  go  riding  with 
Tommy  every  day,  Jim  buys  me  a  stunning  new  auto  coat, 
and  never  even  says  "Boo  — "when  Tommy  runs  into  the 
street  car  and  breaks  my  rib.  See  how  much  saner  and 
broader  this  is. 

KATHARINE.  It  doesn't  sound  so  bad,  but  it  looks  like  the 
Dickens. 

ETHEL.  Let's  stop  talking  about  me,  and  talk  about  you. 
Tell  me  every  little  juicy  bit  from  the  beginning. 


156  FOR  DISTINGUISHED  SERVICE 

KATHARINE.  Well,  his  wife  has  your  idea  of  marriage  exactly, 
and  like  you  she  always  has  at  least  one  dangler  —  to 
satisfy  that  craving  for  Romance,  I  suppose.  Her  husband 
is  too  big  a  man  to  curtail  his  wife's  personal  liberty,  and 
she  takes  unfair  advantage  of  it.  In  fact,  she  sees  so  little 
of  him  that  I  doubt  if  she'd  remember  who  he  is  if  she  didn't 
need  him  to  pay  her  bills.  I've  always  admired  him  be 
cause  he  is  big  and  splendid,  and  because  he  has  been  so 
chivalrous  to  her.J  Nobody  has  suspected  that  he  cared, 
but  as  I've  seen  more  of  him,  I  found  out  that  at  heart  he 
is  dead  lonesome  and  forlorn.  He  has  come  to  me  for  sym 
pathy,  although  he  doesn't  suspect  that  I  know  it  —  and 
perhaps  he  doesn't  know  it  himself.  I've  had  lunch  with 
him  a  few  times,  and  — 

ETHEL  (covering  a  yawn}.     Is  that  all? 

KATHARINE.  Oh,  it  isn't  nearly  so  tame  as  you  think.  I 
told  you  he  needs  sympathy,  and  I've  given  it  to  him,  and 
sympathy  is  a  wonderful  thing.  He's  really  sore  at  his 
wife,  and  he  thinks  he's  rather  crazy  about  me. 

ETHEL  (with  keen  relish).    Can't  you  keep  him  thinking  so? 

KATHARINE.  Yes,  I  can.  What's  more,  I  can  make  him 
really  crazy  about  me  if  I  want  to.  If  I  could  only  forget 
his  wife. 

ETHEL.  Wife  fiddlesticks!  Why  worry  about  her?  She 
would  probably  be  grateful  to  you  for  taking  him  off  her 
hands,  anyway. 

KATHARINE.  Do  you  suppose  so?  (Looking  straight  into 
Ethel's  eyes)  Would  you  feel  that  way  about  Jim? 

ETHEL.  Jim?  Heavens  —  Fancy  blessed  old  Jim  with  an 
affinity!  That's  too  absurd  to  consider  seriously. 

KATHARINE.  Well,  it's  all  over,  Ethel.  I've  decided. 
Perish  my  last  scruple.  His  happiness  means  so  much  to 
me  that  if  his  wife  can't  stay  on  the  job,  I'm  going  to  take 
it  away  from  her.  She's  f oref eited  it  —  absolutely  —  And 
he's  going  to  be  mine. 

ETHEL.  Good  for  you.  I  admire  your  spunk.  Katharine, 
you're  a  regular  person,  after  all. 


FOR  DISTINGUISHED  SERVICE  157 

KATHARINE  (sighing).  I'd  rather  that  his  wife  were  not  a 
friend  of  mine. 

ETHEL.  It  should  make  no  difference  in  your  friendship. 
If  she's  a  broad-minded,  progressive  woman,  like  me,  it 
won't.  Not  a  bit. 

KATHARINE.  Ethel,  listen.  Our  affair  is  just  at  that  fasci 
nating  stage,  where  one  glance,  one  touch,  will  turn  it  into 
a  full-fledged  love  affair.  But  on  the  other  hand,  I  can 
veer  off,  and  he  will  never  know  how  close  he  came  to  the 
abyss.  Men  are  like  that,  you  know. 

ETHEL.  Well,  don't  veer  off.  I'm  going  to  get  some  excite 
ment  out  of  this,  and  I'm  betting  on  you.  Only  —  don't 
back  down.  I'm  so  afraid  you'll  get  weak-kneed  about  this 
everlasting  wife. 

KATHARINE.  You  needn't  worry.  He's  mine,  now,  and  no 
one  can  take  him  from  me.  Ethel,  would  you  mind  if  I 
'phone  him?  He  asked  me  to  ride  over  to  Glen  wood  with 
him  to  the  Martin's  house  party,  and  I  hesitated,  because 
I  felt,  somehow,  that  would  settle  it,  one  way  or  the  other. 
But  now,  I've  no  more  scruples.  I'm  going  to  go,  wouldn't 
you? 

ETHEL.     By  all  means.     I'm  riding  over  with  Tommy. 

KATHARINE.  Oh,  Ethel,  how  glad  I  am  that  you  have  helped 
me  to  this  clearer  vision  of  things !  Isn't  it  wonderful  ?  My 
heart  almost  stops  beating  to  think  of  it.  We're  to  have 
dinner  at  Stanley's  road  house  and  drive  over  by  moon 
light.  It  will  be  the  longest  time  we  have  ever  had  alone 
together. 

ETHEL.  Well,  telephone  him  while  I  put  on  my  wraps.  I 
must  be  going. 

[Ethel  walks  over  to  the  chair  where  her  wraps  are  lying 
Katharine  picks  up  the  receiver,  carefully  holding  down  the 
bracket. 

KATHARINE.  Trenton  6258.  (Ethel  starts,  and  stands  mo 
tionless  with  her  coat  half  on)  Hello  —  Jim?  .  .  .  Yes,  I'll 
go.  .  .  .  No,  it's  all  right,  and  I'll  never  hesitate  again. 
.  .  .  Did  it  really  mean  so  much  to  you?  I'm  glad.  Be- 


158  FOR  DISTINGUISHED  SERVICE 

cause  it  does  to  me  too.  I'll  call  you  later.  Good-by.  (She 
hangs  up  the  receiver.  Ethel  throws  off  her  coat  like  a  warrior 
preparing  for  the  fray  and  comes  slowly  back  toward  Katha 
rine.  Katharine  appears  engrossed  with  the  chocolate  box 
and  pretends  not  to  see  her) 

I  suppose  you  think  it  is  funny  for  me  to  be  crazy  about 
your  blessed  old  Jim.  You  see,  he's  not  my  blessed  old  Jim. 
He's  my  Romance  —  just  as  Tommy  Andrews  is  yours. 
(She  continues  to  explore  the  chocolate  box)  I  never  would 
have  had  the  courage  to  do  it,  if  it  hadn't  been  for  you. 
Oh,  here's  one  of  your  gummy  ones. 
[She  hands  a  chocolate  to  Ethel  without  looking  at  her.  Ethel 
throws  it  back  into  the  box  angrily. 

ETHEL.  What  under  the  sun  are  you  talking  about?  Is  this 
a  joke?  If  so,  I  fail  to  see  the  humor  in  it. 

KATHARINE.  It  is  not  a  joke.  The  facts  are  just  as  you 
heard  them.  Jim  asked  me  to  ride  over  with  him.  He 
said  that  he  couldn't  get  away  until  six,  and  that  you  were 
going  with  Tommy  earlier  in  the  day. 

ETHEL  (stitt  unable  to  grasp  the  situation).  Indeed!  Well, 
how  far  do  you  intend  to  let  this  pleasant  little  affair 
go? 

KATHARINE.  I  don't  know.  (Smiling  brightly)  But  that 
will  settle  itself  nicely,  now  that  all  three  of  us  have  this 
broader,  saner  outlook  on  life.  Jim  and  I  will  probably 
marry  as  soon  as  possible  —  we're  both  just  that  old- 
fashioned  and  prosy  —  and  I  want  him  to  be  generous  and 
pay  you  all  the  alimony  you  want,  so  you  will  still  have  all 
the  money  you  want,  but  be  scot-free  in  the  bargain.  How 
much  happier  we'll  all  be! 

ETHEL.     Have  you  gone  plum  crazy? 

KATHARINE  (appearing  to  notice  her  for  the  first  time).    Why, 
Ethel  dear,  surely  this  isn't  going  to  make  any  difference 
in  our  friendship? 
[She  rises  and  attempts  to  embrace  Ethel. 

ETHEL  (pushing  her  away).  Don't  you  dare  touch  me.  I 
hate  you.  That's  always  the  way  with  you  people  who 


FOR  DISTINGUISHED  SERVICE  159 

pretend  to  be  so  good.    In  their  hearts  they're  a  thousand 
times  wickeder  than  anybody  else. 

KATHARINE.  Why,  Ethel,  it's  silly  for  you  to  be  miffed  about 
this.  You  have  forfeited  your  claim  to  Jim,  if  ever  a  wife 
did.  You  know  it.  You  admitted  you  did. 

ETHEL.     He  never  seemed  to  care. 

KATHARINE.  Did  you  want  him  to  whine  around?  How 
much  good  would  it  have  done  him  if  he  had? 

ETHEL.  At  least  I  didn't  suppose  my  friends  were  conniving 
for  him  behind  my  back. 

KATHARINE.  You  shouldn't  have  kept  your  back  turned  so 
much. 

ETHEL.  I  don't  know  how  much  of  this  you  really  mean, 
but  I'll  tell  you  right  here  —  if  you  ride  over  to  Glenwood 
with  Jim  Harding,  I  shall  not  go  one  step. 

KATHARINE.     Not  even  with  Tommy? 

ETHEL.     Oh  —  damn  Tommy ! 

[She  stamps  her  foot  and  bursts  out  crying.    Katharine  looks 
down  at  her,  smiling. 

KATHARINE.  So  you  do  care  for  him  after  all?  (No  answer) 
I'll  tell  you.  Jim  cares  more  than  you  think,  but  he  will 
never  ask  for  quarter,  and  he  won't  care  for  always.  He 
needs  sympathy,  and  he  will  just  naturally  cling  to  the 
person  that  gives  it  to  him.  Now  if  you  don't  want  him 
to  cling  to  me,  you  know  how  to  prevent  it.  There  is  still 
time. 

ETHEL.  I  can  see  I've  been  an  awful  fool.  Of  course,  I've 
loved  Jim  all  the  time,  but  —  but  I've  kind  of  taken  him 
for  granted  —  just  thought  he  was  mine  forever  —  like 
my  right  hand.  I  —  I  couldn't  live  without  him.  I 
never  thought  of  anybody  taking  him  away  from  me  — 
and  whoever  does  — will  do  it  over  my  dead  body  — 
that's  all. 

KATHARINE.  Don't  leave  him  lying  around  loose  then. 
Next  time  somebody  may  offer  him  sympathy  who  has 
the  modern  viewpoint,  and  she  won't  signal  you  when  she 
gets  to  the  turning  point,  like  I  did. 


160  FOR  DISTINGUISHED  SERVICE 

ETHEL.  Katharine,  you're  a  brick.  Are  you  quite  sure  Jim 
doesn't  care  for  you?  For  if  he  does,  I  would  try  —  I 
would  try  —  to  give  him  up,  but  — 

KATHARINE  (after  a  brief  moment  of  preparation  for  the  sacri 
fice)  .  My  dear  girl,  don't  worry.  He  —  has  never  cared 
for  me  —  a  single  moment. 

ETHEL  (with  suddenly  renewed  suspicion).  How  do  you  ac 
count  for  that  telephone  message  then? 

KATHARINE.  Sure  enough.  That  conversation  was  for  your 
benefit  only.  I  was  holding  down  the  receiver  bracket. 
[Ethel,  who  has  succumbed  to  a  fresh  avalanche  of  sobs,  turns 
a  tear-stained  face  to  Katharine,  which  gradually  becomes 
radiant  as  the  truth  dawns  on  her.  She  fairly  gasps 
with  joy. 

ETHEL.  Oh,  Katharine,  I  feel  awfully  humble  and  grateful 
to  you!  I  feel  like  a  drowning  person  just  pulled  out  in 
time.  I'm  going  right  down  to  the  office  now,  to  tell  Jim 
he  has  a  wife  again  —  if  he  wants  one,  and  to  ride  home 
with  him  just  like  we  used  to. 

KATHARINE.     Splendid.     Put  some  powder  on  your  nose, 
honey,  and  here's  another  gummy  one  to  go  on. 
[Ethel  dabs  on  some  powder  from  her  vanity  box  and  puts  on 
her  coat.    Katharine  watches  her  silently. 

ETHEL  (somewhat  embarrassed).  Katharine,  you'll  ride  over 
to  Glen  wood  with  Jim  and  me,  anyway,  won't  you,  dear? 

KATHARINE.    I'll  see.    Why  don't  you  will  me  Tommy? 

ETHEL.     You  can  have  him.     Good-by. 

[Ethel  waves  her  hand  merrily  and  dashes  out.  Katharine 
stands  looking  after  her  for  a  moment,  then  she  heaves  a  little 
sigh  and  shrugs  her  shoulders.  Her  eye  falls  on  the  box  of 
chocolates  and  she  seems  suddenly  to  come  to  a  determination. 
She  presses  a  button  and  Mary  appears. 

KATHARINE.  You  may  have  the  rest  of  these,  Mary.  (She 
holds  out  the  box)  The  ground  floor  is  still  intact,  I  think. 

MARY.     Oh,  thank  you,  Miss  Burton,  thank  you. 

[She  gathers  up  the  box  joyfully.  Katharine  looks  around 
and  suddenly  notices  the  violets.  She  picks  up  the  basket. 


FOR  DISTINGUISHED  SERVICE  161 

KATHARINE.  And  you  may  have  these  too.  The  smell  of 
violets  is  —  makes  me  a  little  sick,  sometimes. 

MARY.     Oh,  thank  you,  Miss  Burton.     These  are  perfectly 
grand. 
[She  takes  the  violets  from  Katharine  and  turns  to  go. 

KATHARINE.  I  believe  I'll  keep  the  ribbon,  Mary.  (Mary 
returns  and  hands  her  the  crimson  ribbon  which  has  been  tied 
around  the  box,  and  goes  out.  Katharine  dreamily  loops  the 
ribbon  into  a  bow  and  holds  it  to  her  breast,  smiling  a  whimsi 
cal  little  smile,  —  the  warrior  who  may  have  lost  a  limb  in 
battle,  but  has  won  a  Decoration)  For  Distinguished  Service 
under  Fire. 

CURTAIN 


ROCKING  CHAIRS 
MANIKIN  AND  MINIKIN 

ALFRED  KREYMBORG 

ALFRED  KREYMBORG  was  born  in  New  York  City  Decem 
ber  10,  1883,  and  was  educated  in  the  city  schools.  He  has 
earned  his  living  as  a  clerk,  a  teacher  of  chess,  and  as  a  re 
porter  for  a  musical  weekly.  He  has  been  editor  of  several 
artistic  and  literary  periodicals,  among  them  "The  Glebe", 
"Others",  and  "Broom".  He  now  resides  in  Vallallo,  Italy. 
His  published  plays  are  contained  in  two  volumes:  "Plays 
for  Poem-Mimes"  and  "Plays  for  Merry  Andrews". 


ROCKING  CHAIRS 

A  CONCERTINO  FOR  KATYDIDS 


BY  ALFRED  KREYMBORG 


Characters 

MRS.  BOYLE 

MRS.  ALMS 
MRS.  BERRY 
KATYDID  VOICES 


COPYRIGHT,  1921,  BY  ALFRED  KREYMBOBO. 
All  rights  reserved. 

No  performance  of  this  play,  either  amateur  or  professional,  may  be  given  except  by 
special  arrangement  with  the  author's  representative,  Mr.  Norman  Lee  Swartout,  Summit, 
N.J. 


ROCKING  CHAIRS 

SCENE.  The  dining  room  of  a  fairly  prosperous  home  in  the 
township  of  Jasmine  Way,  New  Jersey.  Looking  out  on  the 
street,  a  broad  French  window,  draped  by  portraits  of  Washing 
ton,  Lincoln  and  Wilson.  There  is  nothing  unusual  in  the 
furnishings:  it  is  sufficient  that  rocking  chairs  are  visible  to  the 
number  of  three;  and  a  child's  hobbyhorse.  Doors  open  to  the 
left  and  right.  Two  of  the  rockers  are  in  action,  occupied  re 
spectively  by  Mrs.  Boyle,  the  hostess  of  the  present  occasion,  and 
Mrs.  Alms,  a  neighboring  visitor,  facts  to  be  deduced  solely  by 
the  presence  of  a  hat  on  the  head  of  the  latter.  They  are  sober- 
looking  ladies  in  middle  life.  The  single  peculiarity  of  the 
proceedings  (to  a  foreigner,  that  is)  rises  from  a  dual  happen 
ing:  while  the  one  lady  speaks,  the  other  rocks  in  tempo,  the 
speech  and  rocking  alternating  with  the  given  mood;  and  so,  too, 
in  rotation,  the  one  has  a  habit  of  interrupting  or  of  taking  up 
or  concluding  the  speech  of  the  other,  so  that  a  dialogue  really 
sounds  (which  it  is)  like  a  continuous  monologue:  a  gift  acquired 
only  after  heated  apprenticeship  in  the  school  of  gossip.  The 
voices  of  the  ladies  and  their  inflections  are  pretty  much  of  a 
piece,  and  their  method  of  delivery,  or  rather  of  recitation,  a 
nimble  staccato  rattled  off  in  a  monotone  of  nasal  impersonality 
derived  from  the  strictest  adherence  to  the  curriculum  of  the 
alma  mater.  The  prosaic  lines  of  the  transcription  are  broken, 
not  so  much  to  conform  to  some  sacred  ethic  of  free  verse  as  to 
indicate  or  adumbrate  the  metronomic  beat  of  the  rockers. 

MRS.  ALMS.     A  woman  should  not 
have  ideas  until  after 
she  weds,  when  the  law, 
stamping  her  moral, 
gives  her  the  privilege  — 


168  ROCKING  CHAIRS 

MRS.  BOYLE,     within,  of  course, 

the  circumscribed  boundary, 

hermetically  sealed. 
MRS.  ALMS.     Her  views  being  legal, 

sacrosanct  and  free 

from  anarchic  tendencies 

of  an  individual  turn, 

are  certain  to  partake 

of  assertions  no  more 
MRS.  BOYLE,     dangerous  to  the  welfare 

of  surrounding  society 
MRS.  ALMS,     than  is  involved 

in  discussions  of, 

let  us  say, 
MRS.  BOYLE,     the  price  of  corn  and  butter, 

and  the  shape  and  shade 

of  new  frocks  for  one 

goodman's  further  aesthetic 

as  well  as  athletic 

maintenance,  and  as 

licentious  spice, 
MRS.  ALMS,     the  pepper  of  trifling  comment, 

on  the  inferiority  of  all 

women  not  similarly  disposed, 

as  being,  —  don't  you  agree,  Mrs.  Boyle?  — 
MRS.  BOYLE.     I  do,  Mrs.  Alms  - 
MRS.  ALMS.     A  wee  bit  unmoral  — 
MRS.  BOYLE,     if  not  immoral. 
MRS.  ALMS.     Exactly,  precisely! 

[They  rock  together  in  momentary  silence.     A  woman  passes 

the  French  ivindow,  right  to  left,  and  is  immediately  spied. 
MRS.  BOYLE.     There  now! 
MRS.  ALMS.     There  now! 
MRS.  BOYLE.     What  did  I  say? 
MRS.  ALMS.     What  did  we  say? 
MRS.  BOYLE.    Just  look  at  that  creature 

go  by  my  window  again 


ROCKING  CHAIRS  169 

with  that  brazen,  scarlet 

symbol  on  her  head  — 
MRS.  ALMS.     Mrs.  Berry  once  again. 
MRS.  BOYLE.     One  can  be  certain  now, 

if  one  was  doubtful  before. 

I  call  you  to  witness, 

Mrs.  Alms,  it's  the  fourth, 

fully  the  fifth  time 

since  twilight  descended. 
MRS.  ALMS.     I'm  only  too  glad  to  testify 

she  has  evil  in  her  heart 

and  some  man  in  her  eye. 
MRS.  BOYLE.     She'd  do  that,  she  would  — 

she  with  her  husband 

fresh  in  the  cemetery, 
MRS.  ALMS,     and  the  pretty  white  stone 

marking  her  indelible  devotion 

scarcely  dry  of  the  dew 
MRS.  BOYLE,     she  and  the  rest  of  us  women 

shed  only  five,  only  four, 
MRS.  ALMS,     only  three  months  ago, 
MRS.  BOYLE,     in  honest,  open  sight 
MRS.  ALMS,     of  our  whole  community. 
MRS.  BOYLE.     I'm  sure  you  agree,  my  dear  — 
MRS.  ALMS,     and  so  would  any  other  woman  — 
MRS.  BOYLE,     who  isn't  a  — 
MRS.  ALMS,     isn't  likely  to  be  a  — 
MRS.  BOYLE,     doesn't  happen  to  be  — 
MRS.  ALMS,     the  creature  we  mean. . 
MRS.  BOYLE.     Precisely,  exactly! 

(Mrs.  Boyle  steals  from  her  rocker,  and  is  followed  by  Mrs. 

Alms,  to  the  window.     Their  heads  create  a  parallel  profile, 

prying  leftwards.     Slower  tempo.) 

I  wonder  who  he  is. 
MRS.  ALMS.     Must  be  a  rendezvous. 
MRS.  BOYLE.     Does  anybody  know? 
MRS.  ALMS.     Nobody  knows. 


170  ROCKING   CHAIRS 

MRS.  BOYLE.     Has  anybody  heard? 
MRS.  ALMS.     Nobody's  heard. 
MRS.  BOYLE.     You've  asked? 
MRS.  ALMS.     I've  inquired. 
MRS.  BOYLE.     And  nobody's  told? 
MRS.  ALMS.     How  could  they? 
MRS.  BOYLE.     It's  disgraceful. 
MRS.  ALMS.     Just  like  her. 
MRS.  BOYLE.     She  ought  to  be 

run  out  of  town  — 
MRS.  ALMS,     to  the  town-pump, 

the  sewer,  the  river. 
MRS.  BOYLE.     Our  river's  too  good 

for  such  as  her. 

MRS.  ALMS.  Can  you  see  her  any  longer? 
MRS.  BOYJ.E.  She's  too  slippery  for  that. 
MRS.  ALMS.  She'd  do  that,  she  would  — 
MRS.  BOYLE,  must  have  slid 

behind  that  building 

my  husband  claims 

breaks  the  building  law  — 
MRS.  ALMS,     stuck  out  so  far,  it's 
MRS.  BOYLE,     outlandish,  criminal! 
MRS.  ALMS.     Ah! 

MRS.  BOYLE.      Oh! 

(They  steal  most  reluctantly  back  to  their  rockers.    Former 

tempo.) 

Our  river  would  be  much  too  good 

for  the  like  of  her  and  her  ways  — 
MRS.  ALMS,     though  it's  muddy  enough  as  it  is 

without  such  a  scandal  as  this. 
MRS.  BOYLE.     It's  a  job  for  the  town  council 

which  has  trouble  enough 

keeping  our  streets  clean 

without  having  to  keep 
MRS.  ALMS,     our  society  scrubbed. 

But  that,  my  dear  — 


ROCKING  CHAIRS  171 

MRS.  BOYLE,     that  little  job,  my  dear  — 

MRS.  ALMS,     is  ours  — 

MRS.  BOYLE,     always  has  been  — 

MRS.  ALMS,     always  will  be. 

MRS.  BOYLE.     Thank  God  for  that. 

MRS.  ALMS.     No,  pardon  me, 

thank  us  women ! 
MRS.  BOYLE.     Yes,  pardon  me! 
MRS.  ALMS.     We'll  show  her 
MRS.  BOYLE,     and  her  paramour! 

[They  smile  and  wag  their  heads. 
MRS.  ALMS.     If  it  hadn't  been  for  us  — ' 
MRS.  BOYLE,     and  it  weren't  for  us  —  ' 
MRS.  ALMS,     always  and  ever  — 
MRS.  BOYLE,     ours  wouldn't  be 

the  community  it  is  — 
MRS.  ALMS,     the  best  in  New  Jersey  — 
MRS.  BOYLE,     best  in  America  — 
MRS.  ALMS,     best  in  Christendom! 

[Mutual   sighs   in   satisfaction  —  which   only   a   recurrent 

thought  ruffles  again. 

MRS.  BOYLE.     I  wonder  who  the  man  is. 
MRS.  ALMS.     The  scoundrel,  you  mean. 
MRS.  BOYLE.     I  know  one  thing  for  certain  — 
MRS.  ALMS,     he  isn't,  can't  be 

a  native  or  citizen  of 

Jasmine  Way  — 

MRS.  BOYLE.      not  One  of  OUTS 

but  some  heathen 
hinterlander,  some 
traveling  man, 
drummer  or  salesman. 
Ugh! 

MRS.  ALMS.      Ugh! 

[They  rock  silently  and  muse. 
MRS.  BOYLE.     One  should  wear  black 


172  ROCKING  CHAIRS 

MRS.  ALMS,     from  head  to  heels 

a  whole  year  thereafter. 
MRS.  BOYLE.     Though  it's  not  in  the  statutes, 

nor  in  the  decrees  — 

it's  a  custom  — 

MRS.  ALMS,     a  time-honored  custom  — 
MRS.  BOYLE,     introduced  and  tested 

by  the  best  families 

in  our  American  history; 
MRS.  ALMS,     and  for  the  matter  of  that, 

in  the  British  we  came  from; 
MRS.  BOYLE,     or  for  that  matter, 

in  any  other  civilized  race  — 
MRS.  ALMS,     and  especially,  particularly  so 
MRS.  BOYLE,     in  our  own  Jasmine  Way, 
MRS.  ALMS,     as  good  a  place,  you'll  agree, 
MRS.  BOYLE.     I'll  agree,  as  any  anywhere  — 
MRS.  ALMS,     as  good  as  Boston  itself  — 
MRS.  BOYLE,     as  Plymouth  itself  - 
MRS.  ALMS,     where  the  Mayflower  landed  — 
MRS.  BOYLE,     our  Mayflower! 
MRS.  ALMS.     Though  Jasmine  Way 

is  generations  removed 

from  that  good  ship  and  landing-place, 

that  which  was  good  enough 

for  one's  forefathers 

is  good  enough  and  better 

for  one's  grandchildren  — 

so  I  say  — 
MRS.  BOYLE.     I  say  black,  not  red, 

should  be  worn 

all  the  way  from  head  to  heels 
MRS.  ALMS,     a  whole  year  thereafter  — 
MRS.  BOYLE,     or,  for  the  matter  of  that, 

two,  three,  five,  ten  years, 

the  rest  of  one's  lifetime. 
MRS.  ALMS.     A  good  woman, 


ROCKING  CHAIRS  173 

MRS.  BOYLE,     real  woman, 

MRS.  ALMS,     moral  woman  would  — 

MRS.  BOYLE,     utterly  — 

MRS.  ALMS,     absolutely! 

MRS.  BOYLE.     Not  that  I'd  gossip  about  it  — 

MRS.  ALMS,     nor  I  — 

MRS.  BOYLE,     but  that  I  know  what  I  know, 

sure  that  I  simply  quote 

the  blood  that  flows  in  me  —  '   • 

MRS.  ALMS,     like  the  Mississippi 

down  the  backbone  of  America. 
MRS.  BOYLE.     It  isn't  gossip  — 
MRS.  ALMS,     it's  gospel! 

[Another  pause.  Mrs.  Alms,  obviously,  wants  to  introduce 
a  new  variation.  She  appeals  to  Mrs.  Boyle  with  a  look 
and  falters.  A  discrepancy  arises  in  the  ensuing  rhythm 
of  words  and  accompaniment  of  rockers  —  a  condition  which 
prevails  whenever  uncertainty  intervenes:  a  rubato  or  syncopa 
tion  interrupting  the  customary  flow. 

MRS.  BOYLE.     What  is  it,  my  dear? 
MRS.  ALMS.     Has  she  ever  — 

no  offense,  my  dear  — 

what  I  want  to  ask  is  — 

does  she  ever  call  on  you? 
MRS.  BOYLE.     Who,  Mrs.  Alms? 
MRS.  ALMS.     I  said,  no  offense,  dear. 

I  don't  mean,  do  you  invite  her  — • 

of  course,  she's  not  on  your  list  — 

such  a  creature  —  but  — 

has  she  the  audacity 

ever  to  visit  you? 
MRS.  BOYLE.     Holy  horrors,  dear  — 

holy  judgment,  holy  doom  — 

do  you  think, 

do  you  suppose, 

do  you  imagine  — 


174  ROCKING  CHAIRS 

MRS.  ALMS.     I  neither  think, 

suppose  nor  imagine. 

I  know,  happen  to  know 

you  wouldn't  let  her  in; 

you'd  show  her  the  door. 
MRS.  BOYLE.     I  almost  wish  she  would  — 

I'd  show  her  the  street. 
MRS.  ALMS.    Of  course,  you  would  — 

so  would  I  — 
MRS.  BOYLE,     and  so  would  the  rest 

of  our  women,  unless 

they've  lost  their  self-respect  — 
MRS.  ALMS,     every  woman  in  Jasmine  Way. 

But  what  I  mean  is  — 

what  I'd  insinuate  — 

how  are  we  going  to  find  out  — 

if  for  instance  we  should 

happen  to  meet  her  — 

just  accidentally  — 

how  are  we  going  to  learn 

if  whoever  happens  to  be 

the  victim  of  her  call 

shows  her  the  street  — 

before  we  actually  — 

somehow  or  other  — 

one  never  knows  how  — 

it's  never  the  same  — 

usually  accidentally  — 
MRS.  BOYLE.     What  are  you 

trying  to  find  out? 

Who  he  is? 
MRS.  ALMS.    Yes,  and  what  they  intend! 

MRS.  BOYLE.      H'm! 
MRS.  ALMS.      H'm! 

MRS.  BOYLE.    That's  a  poser  — 
MRS.  ALMS,     a  puzzle! 


ROCKING  CHAIRS  175 

MRS.  BOYLE.     As  you  say  — 

I  wouldn't  have  her  here; 

you  wouldn't  have  her  at 

Woodlawn  Villa. 

Nobody 'd  have  her  — 

and  one  wouldn't, 

simply  couldn't,  be  seen 

conversing  with  her  like 

anywhere  else  — 

nowhere,  anywhere  else  — 

surely  not  a  woman 

who  respects  herself  — 

which  I  hope  we  do. 
MBS.  ALMS.     There's  no  need  hoping  — 

we  do,  you  and  I. 
MRS.  BOYLE.     One  would  merely 

not  be  seen  where  she's  seen  — 

and  as  for  that, 

the  Wiggins  wouldn't  have  her, 

the  Frys  wouldn't  tolerate  her, 

the  Bisons  would  ostracize  her, 

the  Dalrymples,  the  Mackinaws, 

the  Websters,  the  Lovells  — 
MRS.  ALMS,     the  Jenkinses,  the  Hotchkisses  — 
MRS.  BOYLE,     the  Kirkpatricks,  the  Perkinses  — 
MRS.  ALMS,    the  Wayland  Smythes,  the  Ossip  Brownes  — 
MRS.  BOYLE,     every  solitary  one  of  them  — 

simply  and  collectively  — 

with  one  voice  and  in  chorus  — 

would  cry  out  upon  her  like  — 
MRS.  ALMS,     would  silently  point  out  — 
MRS.  BOYLE,     with  the  scornful  forefinger 

more  eloquent  than  speech  — 
MRS.  ALMS,     the  lofty  little  stare 

more  powerful  than  blows  — 
MRS.  BOYLE,     with  just  that  oblique  tilt 

of  one's  chin  more  accurate 


176  ROCKING  CHAIRS 

in  directing  the  wayfarer 

than  any  cross-road  sign  — 
MRS.  ALMS,     as  to  whither  she  should  go  — 
MRS.  BOYLE,     as  to  where  she  belongs ! 
MRS.  ALMS.     However  — 
MRS.  BOYLE,     nevertheless  — 
MRS.  ALMS,     notwithstanding  which  — 
MRS.  BOYLE,     admitting  the  painful  certainty  — 
MRS.  ALMS,     that  one  must  see  to  be  able  to  hear  — 

[The  woman  with  the  red  hat  appears  at  the  left  of  the  window 

—  stops  and  looks  in  without  being  seen. 
MRS.  BOYLE,     and  that  one  must  hear  to  be  able  to  learn  — 
MRS.  ALMS,     who  he  is  and  what  they  intend  — 

[The  woman  smiles  mischievously  and  nods  and  wags  her 

head  in  roguish  change  of  character. 
MRS.  BOYLE,     and  deducing  from  this 

that  to  clean  city  streets 

or  dust  city  homes  — 
MRS.  ALMS,    one  must  find  out 

where  the  dust  lies  — 
MRS.  BOYLE,     it  is  our  paramount  duty 

in  the  interests  of  our  own 

civic  welfare,  as  women 

who  have  made  and  kept 

our  society  spotless  — 
MRS.  ALMS,     whiter  than  lamb's  wool, 

white  as  driven  snow  — 

MRS.  BOYLE.      to  find  OUt  — 

even  at  the  expense  of 

temporarily  soiling  oneself 

what  a  woman,  who  should 

in  all  righteousness 

be  wearing  black 

from  head  to  heels  — 
MRS.  ALMS,     means  by  flaunting 

such  an  insulting  red  symbol  — 
MRS.  BOYLE,     red  bird,  red  feather  — 


ROCKING  CHAIRS  177 

MRS.  ALMS,     red  something  or  other  — 
MRS.  BOYLE,     and  what  she  means 

by  parading  back  and  forth 

right  under  our  noses  — 

[  The  woman  disappears  —  slightly  nodding  and  wagging  — 

to  the  right. 

MRS.  ALMS,     with  evil  in  her  heart  — 
MRS.  BOYLE,     and  some  man  in  her  eye. 
MRS.  ALMS.     But  how,  my  dear? 
MRS.  BOYLE.     Yes,  how,  my  dear  — 
MRS.  ALMS,     will  we  find  out? 
MRS.  BOYLE.     Would  you  have  her? 
MRS.  ALMS.     Would  you? 

MRS.  BOYLE.      H'm. 
MRS.  ALMS.      H'm. 

[A  distant  door  bell  rings.     The  women  start. 
MRS.  BOYLE.     Good  gracious. 
MRS.  ALMS.     What's  that? 
MRS.  BOYLE.     It  gave  me  such  a  scare. 
MRS.  ALMS.     Sounded  like  a  summons. 
MRS.  BOYLE.     Only  my  door  bell! 
MRS.  ALMS.     Heaven  be  praised! 

[They  listen.     The  bell  rings  again.     Mrs.  Boyle  rises  with 

annoyance. 

MRS.  BOYLE.     Pardon  me,  dear. 
MRS.  ALMS.     Certainly,  dear. 
MRS.  BOYLE.     Cook  must  be  busy  cooking. 
MRS.  ALMS.     By  all  means. 
MRS.  BOYLE.     Awfully  stupid  of  her 

to  be  so  hard  of  hearing. 
MRS.  ALMS.     She's  only  conscientious  — 
MRS.  BOYLE,     deaf  to  all  but  the  present  duty  — 
MRS.  ALMS,     which  can't  help  but  absorb  her 

to  the  extinction  of  all  other  sound. 
MRS.  BOYLE.     How  you  do  understand  — 

thank  you,  dear. 
MRS.  ALMS.     Not  at  all,  run  along! 


178  ROCKING  CHAIRS 

(Mrs.  Boyle  leaves  by  the  door  to  the  right.     Mrs.  Alms  in 

dulges  a  soft,  droning  monologue,  the  while  she  looks  abou 

inquisitively)      "Cook  must  be  busy  cooking"  — 

h'm  — 

What's  become  of  her  maid? 

Does  she  expect  a  cook 

to  be  a  centipede, 

with  legs  for  a  kitchen 

and  legs  for  a  door  bell? 

h'm  — 

it  was  only  last  night 

I  was  asking  Mr.  Alms: 

"How  is  it  the  Boyles 

no  longer  afford  a  maid? 

The  last  time  I  called 

Mrs.  Boyle  answered  my  ring?" 

And  he  said,  the  innocent : 

"Mr.  Boyle's  upholstery  trade 

is  just  a  little  slack  now; 

besides,  it's  none  of  our  affair  — " 

of  course  it  isn't  — 

"and  it's  not  for  us  to  pry  into  theirs  — " 

of  course  it  isn't. 

But  what  I'd  like  to  know 

and  have  a  right  to  know  is : 

Why  should  such  a  woman 

set  herself  up  as  a  leader  in  society, 

a  censor  of  other  folks'  conduct  — 

an  authority  in  civic  betterment  — 

when  she  hasn't  even  a  maid 

to  answer  her  bell  — 

and  has  the  effrontery, 

the  throw-dust-in-your-eye 

obviousness  to  resort  to 

"Cook  must  be  busy  cooking"? 

H'm  — 

Washington  —  Lincoln  —  Wilson? 


ROCKING  CHAIRS  179 

What  are  they  to  her, 

or  she  to  them? 

Does  she  fancy  herself  of  their  breed  — 

qualified  to  live  with  them  — 

such  awful  chromos  of  them  — 

just  because  she's  better. 

Fancies  herself  superior  — 

to  a  woman  passing  her  window? 

French,  of  course,  what  else  would  it  be? 

What's  that  hobbyhorse  doing  here? 

It  doesn't  belong  in  a  drawing-room  — J 

but  in  the  children's  room. 

I  suppose  they  can't  afford 

a  children's  room  — 

this  house  is  a  wee  bit  too  small  — 

they  can't  quite  afford 

a  house  just  a  wee  bit  larger. 

H'm. 

It  just  serves  you  right,  Mrs.  Alms. 

Don't  blame  Mrs.  Boyle,  blame  yourself. 

If  you  must  be  visiting  folk, 

you  might  be  more  careful 

of  some  folk  you  visit  — 

and  don't  blame  them 

for  your  own  indiscriminate 

lack  of  discretion. 

Last  week, 

it  was  that  Vandusen  woman 

and  her  bridge  party  — 

unmentionable  — 

and  the  week  before, 

that  lawn  party  at  the  Ossip  Brownes  — 

unspeakable. 

What '11  it  be  next  week? 

Will  you  ever,  ever  learn? 

[She  hears  footsteps  and  hurried  voices  —  and  sits  up  prim 

and  straight  —  like  a  picture  in  a  family  album.     The  door 


180  ROCKING  CHAIRS 

is  opened.  Mrs.  Berry  —  the  lady  in  the  red  hat  —  a  pictur 
esque  figure  withal,  some,  or  a  few,  years  younger  than  the 
others  —  is  ceremoniously  ushered  in  by  Mrs.  Boyle,  in  a 
hectic  flutter.  They  are  in  the  midst  of  a  discussion,  excited 
on  Mrs.  Boyle's  part,  quiet  on  Mrs.  Berry's,  and  do  not  greet 
Mrs.  Alms,  who  rises  in  temporary  horror  and  backs  away 
from  her  rocker,  her  eyes  on  the  symbol. 

MRS.  BOYLE.     This  is  most  overwhelming,  my  dear. 

MRS.  BERRY.     Not  at  all, 
it's  you  who  overwhelm  me. 

MRS.  BOYLE.     But  fancy  you  selecting  me  — 
picking  me  out  first  — 
among  all  your  many  friends  — 
surely  you  have  older,  * 
much  older  friends  than  I? 

MRS.  BERRY.     Older,  yes,  but  not  dearer. 

MRS.  BOYLE.     Even  so, 

your  visiting  me  first  of  all, 
right  out  in  front, 
leaves  me  speechless, 
breathless,  without  a  word. 

MRS.  BERRY.     Then  don't  say  it,  dear  — 

[Nudges  Mrs.  Boyle,  indicating  Mrs.  Alms,  whose  horror, 
melted  down  to  curiosity,  now  broadens  to  a  stereotyped  smile. 
Mrs.  Boyle  reverts  to  Mrs.  Alms  with  a  suspicion  of  intro 
ductory  condescension. 

MRS.  BOYLE.     Oh  —  pardon  me  —  dear  Mrs.  Alms  — 
I'm  so  agitated! 
Just  imagine  — 
do  pardon  me  — 
you're  acquainted,  aren't  you, 
with  Mrs.  Berry? 

MRS.  ALMS  (a  little  uncertain).     Why,  yes  — 
to  be  sure,  most  assuredly. 
What  makes  you  ask  such  a  question?  , 

[Mrs.  Berry  shakes  her  part-way  outstretched  hand  cordially; 


ROCKING  CHAIRS  181 

Mrs.  Alms,  apparently,  in  the  dilemma  of  not  knowing  how 

far  to  respond,  but  anxious  not  to  err. 
MRS.  BERRY.     Indeed  — 

what  should  cause  Mrs.  Boyle 

to  put  such  a  question  to  you  — 

and  to  me  —  such  firm  friends? 
MRS.  ALMS.     None  better. 
MRS.  BOYLE.     My  fault  entirely  — 

but  what  else  could  I  do? 

I'm  really  so  overwhelmed  — 

wait  till  you  hear;  you'll  understand. 
MRS.  ALMS.     Understand  what? 
MRS.  BOYLE.     Just  fancy,  my  dear  — 

Mrs.  Berry  — 

it's  absolutely  incredible, 

delightful,  intriguing  — 

so  like  her  — 

only  she  would  do  such  a  thing! 
MRS.  ALMS.     What  thing? 
MRS.  BOYLE.     Mrs.  Berry  — 
MRS.  BERRY.     Mrs.  Berry  no  longer. 

MRS.  ALMS.      Eh? 

MRS.  BOYLE.     You  may  well  say,  "eh." 

I  said  more  than  "eh"  when  I  heard  the  tale. 
MRS.  ALMS.     What  tale? 
MRS.  BERRY.     Don't  keep  Mrs.  Alms  in  suspense  — 

I'm  not  worth  so  much  flattery. 
MRS.  BOYLE.     Oh,  but  you  are,  Mrs.  — 

if  Mrs.  Alms  knew, 

if  she  could  even  guess! 
MRS.  ALMS.     Of  course  I  know  — 

of  course  I  can  guess  — 

and  I  congratulate  you 

from  the  bottom  of  my  heart,  Mrs.  — ? 

MRS.  BERRY.       Mrs.  

MRS.  BOYLE.     Don't  say  the  name  — 
that  would  spoil  all. 


182  ROCKING  CHAIRS 

It's  too  dumfounding 

to  tell  all  at  once. 
MRS.  ALMS.     What  is,  what  is? 
MRS.  BERRY.    Nothing,  my  dear. 

MRS.  BOYLE.       It  is,  it  is 

and  don't  you  dare  give  it  away  — 

let  me  tell  the  whole  story. 
MRS.  BERRY.     You  tell  it  then  — 

but  no  embellishments,  please  — 

none  of  your  exaggerated  feelings  — 

[Mrs.  Alms  is  obviously  chagrined  at  having  to  receive  the 

tale  from  an  intermediary. 
MRS.  ALMS.     Do  be  calm,  Mrs.  Boyle. 
MRS.  BERRY.     Are  you  calm  now,  dear  — 
MRS.  BOYLE.     Perfectly,  thank  you  — 
MRS.  BERRY,     as  a  story-teller  should  be? 
MRS.  BOYLE.     Heaven  knows  you  were  calm  — 

I  can't  understand  with  your  fortune 

how  you  could  be  so  cold. 
MRS.  ALMS.     Fortune? 
MRS.  BERRY.     Mrs.  Boyle's  off  again. 
MRS.  BOYLE.     No,  my  dear  — 

you  watch  me  — 

and  if  I  leave  anything  out, 

you  caution  me. 
MRS.  BERRY.     Yes,  but  be  careful  you  don't 

put  anything  in. 
MRS.  BOYLE.     I  won't,  I  couldn't  — 

there's  nothing  to  add. 
MRS.  ALMS.     Mrs.  Boyle,  Mrs.  —  ! 
MRS.  BOYLE.     There,  dear  friend  — 

forgive  me  —  I'm  really 

beside  myself  — 

come  —  let  us  sit  down 

in  these  rockers  — 

they'll  bring  me  back  to  my  senses. 
MRS.  BERRY.     The  same  gentle  rockers  of  yore  — 


ROCKING  CHAIRS  183 

MRS.  BOYLE,     freshly  upholstered  in  the  new  style  — 

MRS.  BERRY,     but  still  capable  of  lulling  one  — 

MRS.  ALMS,     as  only  Mr.  Boyle's  rockers  can. 

MRS.  BOYLE.     Bless  the  dear  man !     Thank  you,  friends ! 

[They  sit  down  and  begin  rocking  —  slowly,  at  first,  but  later, 

in  accordance  with  the  varying  moods.     Mrs.  Alms  and  Mrs. 

Berry  and  Mrs.  Boyle,  the  former  not  without  secret  resent 
ment,  the  latter  not  without  delight. 
MRS.  ALMS.     Pray,  Mrs.  Boyle,  may  I  ask  —  ? 
MRS.  BOYLE.     Thank  you  for  reminding  me  — 

this  chair  was  for  sending  me  off  — 

into  a  dream,  an  Oriental  trance, 

almost  like  the  Arabian  Nights ! 
MRS.  BERRY.     Hurry  back  to  Jasmine  Way ! 
MRS.  BOYLE.     Yes,  but  not  the  way  you  did  — 

went  off  in  a  quiet  cloud  — 

and  came  back  in  a  thunder  storm. 
MRS.  ALMS.     What's  wrong  with  her  now? 
MRS.  BOYLE  (rocking  suddenly).    No,  it's  impossible! 
MRS.  ALMS.     The  saints  protect  us! 
MRS.  BOYLE.     I  can't  hold  it  in  — 

no  dam  could  stay  such  a  flood. 

I'd  like  to  tell  it 

from  start  to  finish  — 

but  I'm  no  story-teller  — 

nor  ice  like  you,  dear  Mrs.  — 
MRS.  BERRY.     Say  it. 
MRS.  BOYLE.     All  at  once? 
MRS.  BERRY.     Altogether! 
MRS.  BOYLE.     You  won't  mind? 

MRS.  BERRY.      Not  at  all. 

MRS.  BOYLE.     And  you,  Mrs.  Alms, 
won't  be  disappointed 
that  I  tell  the  climax  first? 

MRS.  ALMS.      No,  but  I'll  gO 

clean  daft  with  the  fidgets 

if  you  don't  return  to  reason,  Mrs.  Boyle! 


184  ROCKING  CHAIRS 

MRS.  BOYLE  (leaning  forward  provocatively).     It's  — 

MRS.  ALMS.     Yes  —  yes? 

MRS.  BOYLE.     Mr.  —  Wellington ! 

MRS.  ALMS.     Mr.  —  Wellington? 

not  the  — 

MRS.  BOYLE.     Yes,  the  Mr.  Ambrose  Wellington  — 
MRS.  ALMS.     The  multi-millionaire? 
MRS.  BOYLE.     Manufacturer  of  farm  implements  — 
MRS.  ALMS,     harrows,  hoes,  rakes  — 
MRS.  BOYLE,     tractors,  engines,  plows  — 
MRS.  ALMS,     himself? 
MRS.  BOYLE.     Himself  and  no  other! 

[Mrs.  Alms  turns  on  Mrs.  Wellington  with  round  eyes. 
MRS.  ALMS.     Is  it  the  truth, 

the  gospel  truth? 

MRS.  WELLINGTON.     The  simple  truth,  so  help  me. 
MRS.  ALMS.     Dear,  dear  Mrs.  Wellington! 

[She  fairly  pounces  on  Mrs.   Wellington;    the  latter  has 

difficulty  extricating  herself. 
MRS.  ALMS.    Let  me  be  the  very  first 

to  congratulate  you, 

you  angelic  creature! 
MRS.  BOYLE.    The  second,  Mrs.  Alms. 

[Mrs.  Alms  is  forced  back  to  her  rocker. 
MRS.  ALMS.     The  second,  third,  fourth, 

tenth,  hundredth,  thousandth  — 

what  difference  would  it  be 

were  I  the  last  in  line, 

the  least  and  most  humble  — 

this  is  miraculous. 

MRS.  WELLINGTON.     You're  as  mad  as  the  other. 
MRS.  ALMS.     No  woman  begins  to  deserve 

such  an  event  as  you  do. 

Ambrose  Wellington  — 

the  Wellington  agricultural  interests  — 

advertised  on  every  other  billboard  — 

way  out  on  the  prairies, 


ROCKING  CHAIRS  185 

high  up  in  the  mountains, 

the  Rockies  themselves  — 

known  from  the  Atlantic  to  the  Pacific, 

all  around  the  globe  itself  — 

and  the  Wellington  mansion  — 

with  that  sunset  view  — 

I  do  hope  you  won't 

forsake  Jasmine  Way. 

There's  no  such  view 

in  the  whole  wide  world ! 

MRS.  WELLINGTON.    How  about  Naples,  Rio,  Frisco? 
MRS.  ALMS.     Mere  bird  views  — 

microscopic  by  comparison. 

I'm  speechless  — 

MRS.  BOYLE.       So  Was  I 

MRS.  ALMS.     There  are  no  such  grounds 

In  the  whole  of  Christendom. 

Will  I  ever  forget  to  my  dying  day 

that  magnificent  lawn  party 

the  Wellingtons  — 

oh,  I  do  beg  your  pardon! 
MRS.  WELLINGTON.     On  the  contrary, 

we  both  honor  her  memory. 
MRS.  ALMS.    To  be  sure  — 

why  shouldn't  you  — 

who  would  blame  you  for  it  — 

who  would  do  other  than  praise  you? 
MRS.  BOYLE.     That's  what  I  said  — 
MRS.  ALMS.     I  distinctly  recall  the  sumptuous  funeral  — 
MRS.  WELLINGTON.     The  one  painful  detail  — 
MRS.  ALMS.    Of  course  —  pardon  me  — 

just  as  painful  to  him, 

as  we  all  realize  only  too  well  — 

MRS.  WELLINGTON,     as  Mr.  Berry's  was  to  me  —  but  — 
MRS.  ALMS.     On  the  contrary  — 

excuse  me  for  insisting  — 

these  are  gladsome  events. 


186  ROCKING  CHAIRS 

I  mean  — 

they  aren't  happenings 

to  cry  one's  eyes  completely  out 

the  rest  of  one's  lifetime. 

They  make  way  for  healing 

compensations  —  Emerson's  compensations  — 

you've  set  an  immortal  example! 

MRS.  WELLINGTON.      How  SO? 

MRS.  ALMS.     Mrs.  Boyle  can  tell  you. 

MRS.  BOYLE.     Yes,  let  me  tell. 

MRS.  ALMS.     Mrs.  Boyle  can  tell  you 

I  was  saying  only  this  very  afternoon, 

how  wonderful  it  was, 

how  courageous  of  you, 

what  a  superlative  precedent 

of  you  not  to 

enter  mourning, 

complete  mourning  — 
MRS.  BOYLE,    from  head  to  heels  — 
MRS.  ALMS,    when  dear  Mr.  Berry  departed  this  life. 
MRS.  WELLINGTON.     Let  me  explain  — 
MRS.  ALMS.     You  don't  have  to  — 
MRS.  BOYLE.     There's  no  explanation  in  order  — 
MRS.  ALMS.     It  would  sound  like  an  apology  — 
MRS.  BOYLE,     an  insult  to  our  broad-mindedness. 
MRS.  ALMS.     I  apprehend  you  fully  — 

MRS.  BOYLE.      SO  do  I. 

MRS.  ALMS.     You  have  laid  that  barbarous  custom  — 
relic  of  the  last  bulwarks  of  heathenism  — 

MRS.  BOYLE,     deep  down  the  grave  of  the  past 
where  all  things  black  or  dark  belong. 

MRS.  ALMS.     You  have  shown  the  stupid  folk  of  this  town 
the  Wiggins,  the  Frys  — 

MRS.  BOYLE,    the  Bisons,  the  Dalrymples  — 

MRS.  ALMS,     the  Mackinaws,  the  Websters  — 

MRS.  WELLINGTON.     Spare  me,  ladies. 

MRS.  ALMS.    Spare  them,  you  mean. 


ROCKING  CHAIRS  187 

MRS.  BOYLE.     I'd  like  to  examine 

the  whole  telephone  directory  — 

ferret  each  and  every  one.  — 
MRS.  WELLINGTON.     Don't,  don't! 
MRS.  ALMS.     Don't,  don't! 
MRS.  BOYLE.     Haven't  I  heard  them 

refer  to  you  in  doubtful  terms? 
MRS.  ALMS.     Haven't  I  heard  them 

sneer  at  you  — 

MRS.  BOYLE,     gossip  about  you? 
MRS.  ALMS.     Yes,  and  why  — 
MRS.  BOYLE,     yes,  why? 
MRS.  ALMS.     Because  you  refused 

to  advertise  your  grief 

so  they  might  glory  in  it  — 
MRS.  BOYLE,     because  you  preferred 

to  hold  your  head  above  sorrow 

like  —  is  it  the  Chinese 

when  a  relative  departs? 
MRS.  WELLINGTON.     Chinese? 
MRS.  ALMS.     You're  like  them  in  that  — 
MRS.  BOYLE,     though  white  in  every  other  way. 
MRS.  WELLINGTON.     Ever  so  many  thanks  to  you  both. 
MRS.  BOYLE.    You're  much  too  good  for  Jasmine  Way. 
MRS.  ALMS.    Yes,  but  don't  leave  us  — 
MRS.  BOYLE,     it'd  be  a  living,  crawling 

cemetery  if  you  did. 

MRS.  WELLINGTON.     Leave  dear  old  Jasmine? 
MRS.  ALMS.     It  isn't  so  bad,  the  rest  of  it  — 
MRS.  BOYLE,     though  it  does  need  cleaning 

in  more  ways  than  our  street 

department  sweeps  it. 
MRS.  ALMS.     Turning  on  hydrants 

is  only  part  of  the  job;  — 
MRS.  BOYLE,     the  whole  smelly  river 

ought  to  be  turned  loose 

for  the  benefit  of  some  folk. 


188  ROCKING  CHAIRS 

MRS.  WELLINGTON.     Dear  old  river  — 

you  wouldn't  ask  that  of  it? 

So  peaceful,  so  serene  — 

so  like  a  lizard 

spreading  in  the  sun  — 

so  particularly  dear 

in  the  twilight. 
MRS.  BOYLE.     In  the  twilight! 

Just  think,  Mrs.  Alms  — 

you  recall  we  saw  Mrs.  Wellington  — 

once  or  twice  — 

MRS.  ALMS,     passing  your  window?    Yes! 
MRS.  BOYLE.     And  I  wanted  to  rush  out 

and  ask  her  in  to  tea? 
MRS.  ALMS.     Yes,  and  you  said  — 
MRS.  BOYLE.     Yes,  and  I  said, 

maybe  she's  strolling  back  and  forth 

with  some  purpose  in  her  mind 

I  had  better  not  disturb? 
MRS.  ALMS.     Yes,  and  I  said  — 
MRS.  BOYLE.     Yes,  and  we  were  absolutely 

both  of  us  wrong. 
MRS.  ALMS.     Indeed? 
MRS.  BOYLE.    Tell  Mrs.  Alms  — 

do,  Mrs.  Wellington! 
MRS.  WELLINGTON.     I  was  only  renewing  my  memories 

refreshing  myself  with  sights 

one  never  entirely  forgets 

but  always  likes  to  recall. 
MRS.  ALMS.     Of  course. 
MRS.  BOYLE.     Isn't  that  lovely? 
MRS.  ALMS.     Who  else  would  be  so  romantic? 
MRS.  BOYLE,     so  truly  sensible ! 
MRS.  ALMS.     Who  else  would  see  the  least 

thing  in  our  town  worth  seeing  twice? 
MRS.  WELLINGTON.     You  malign  it,  my  dears  — 

consider  old  High  Street  —  -, 

with  its  grave,  baronial  homes  — 


ROCKING  CHAIRS  189 

MRS.  BOYLE,     yes,  and  its  majestic  emerald  lawns  — 
MRS.  ALMS,     and  the  elms  and  oaks  eternally  shading  it  — 
MRS.  WELLINGTON,     and  the  graceful,  faithful  churches 

so  straight  in  their  aspiration  — 
MRS.  BOYLE,     their  spires  so  poignant  — 
MRS.  ALMS,     their  genuine  stained  glass  — 

(Mr.  Alms  says  it  is  — 

glass  is  his  trade,  he  knows)  — 

so  like  bleeding,  devout  hearts  — 
MRS.  WELLINGTON,     and  the  quaint  country  stores 

so  redolent  of  our  past, 

of  our  upright  forefathers, 
-     our  honest  pioneers  — 
MRS.  BOYLE,     their  simple  diligence  — 
MRS.  ALMS,     and  hardy  perseverance  — 
MRS.  WELLINGTON,     and  the  squat  town  hall 

where  the  mayor  lives 

and  our  wise  town  council, 

watching  over  us 

like  hens  over  chicks  — 
MRS.  BOYLE.     That  isn't  so  bad  — 
MRS.  ALMS.     Nor  he,  nor  they  — 
MRS.  WELLINGTON,     and  the  place  where  we  all  go, 

where  we  all  lie,  where  we  all  stay, 

guardian  spirits  over  those  yet  to  come  — 
MRS.  BOYLE.     The  cemetery? 

MRS.  WELLINGTON.     Our  dear,  sacred,  white  cemetery. 
MRS.  BOYLE.     Spare  yourself  that  detail. 
MRS.  ALMS.     Yes,  why  drag  that  in? 
MRS.  WELLINGTON.     On  the  contrary  — 
MRS.  BOYLE.     No,  why  shouldn't  you? 
MRS.  ALMS.     Yes,  why  shouldn't  you? 
MRS.  WELLINGTON.     He's  happy  — 
MRS.  BOYLE.     Yes,  because  you  made  him  so. 
MRS.  ALMS.     No,  because  she  keeps  him  so. 
MRS.  WELLINGTON.     Thank  you,  dear  friend. 
MRS.  BOYLE.     Not  at  all,  my  dear  — 


190  ROCKING  CHAIRS 

MRS.  ALMS,     no  thanks  are  due  us. 
MRS.  WELLINGTON.     Oh,  yes,  they  are. 

Let  me  ask 

one  simple  question,  may  I? 

MRS.  BOYLE.      Ask  tWO  — 

MRS.  ALMS,     a  dozen. 

MRS.  WELLINGTON.     Who,  during  my  absence, 

short  though  it  was  — 

who  were  the  only  ladies 

in  the  entire  Jasmine  Way 

who  didn't  — 

I  hate  to  use  the  word  — 
MRS.  BOYLE,     say  it,  dear  — 
MRS.  ALMS,     out  with  it :  gossip ! 
MRS.  WELLINGTON.     Can  you  perchance  tell  me 

how  many  ladies  didn't? 

(Mrs.  Boyle  and  Mrs.  Alms  examine  each  other  evasively) 

You  don't  have  to  tell  me  — 

nor  look  so  sheepish  and  modest. 
MRS.  BOYLE.     Dear,  dear, — 
MRS.  ALMS.     Mrs.  Wellington! 
MRS.  BOYLE  (excitedly).     Is  that  why  — 

can  that  be  the  reason? 
MRS.  WELLINGTON.     I  rang  your  door  bell? 

Yes  —  but  I  was  also 

on  my  way  to  one  other. 
MRS.  ALMS.     You  exquisite  creature! 
MRS.  WELLINGTON  :    And  now  — 

MRS.  BOYLE.       YeS? 
MRS.  ALMS.      Yes? 

[They  lean  forward. 

MRS.  WELLINGTON.     Mr.  Wellington  and  I  — 
in  the  nature  of  a  quiet  celebiation  — 

MRS.  BOYLE.       yes? 

MRS.  ALMS,     yes?  — 
MRS.  WELLINGTON,     are  planning 
an  old-fashioned  house-warming  — 


ROCKING  CHAIRS  191 

MRS.  BOYLE.       ah  ! 

MRS.  ALMS.       ah? 

MRS.  WELLINGTON.      for  — 
MRS.  BOYLE.       Us? 
MRS.  ALMS.      Us? 

MRS.  WELLINGTON.    Not  you  two  alone. 

MRS.  BOYLE.       Oh! 
MRS.  ALMS.      Oh! 

[They  lean  back. 
MRS.  WELLINGTON.     You  don't  comprehend. 

It  isn't  our  intention  — 

quite  to  ostracize  the  community. 

That'd  be  ostracizing  ourselves  — 

shutting  us  off  from  the  spectacle  — 

and  the  amusement  of  the  spectacle; 

besides,  it'd  be  in  poor  taste  — 

undemocratic,  un-American  — 
MRS.  BOYLE,     and  would  J3e  showing  your  cards  — 
MRS.  ALMS,     most  undiplomatic! 
MRS.  WELLINGTON.     What  we  want  you  ladies  for  — 

MRS.  BOYLE.       yCS? 

MRS.  ALMS,     yes? 

[They  lean  forward  again. 
MRS.  WELLINGTON,     is  to  act  as  a 

sort  of  committee  with  me  — 

to  send  out  the  invitations. 
MRS.  BOYLE.     You  adroit  little  schemer! 
MRS.  ALMS.     Tiny  bag  of  mischief ! 
MRS.  BOYLE.     How  thoughtful  of  such  a  man  — 
MRS.  ALMS,     typical  of  such  a  woman  — 
MRS.  BOYLE,     to  light  on  two  such  — 

may  I  say,  practised  — 
MRS.  ALMS,     hardened  campaigners? 
MRS.  WELLINGTON.     God  send  you  His  blessing. 
MRS.  BOYLE.     Amen! 
MRS.  ALMS.     Amen! 


192  ROCKING  CHAIRS 

MRS.  WELLINGTON.     Now,  I'd  like  you  angels 

to  draw  up  a  list 

of  the  eligibles,  so  to  speak. 
MRS.  BOYLE.     The  Wiggins,  the  Frys  — 
MRS.  ALMS,     the  Bisons,  the  Dalrymples? 
MRS.  WELLINGTON.     Each  and  every  eligible  — 
MRS.  BOYLE,     say  no  more  — 
MRS.  ALMS,     don't  tell  me  — 
MRS.  WELLINGTON,     for  next  Sunday  at  four. 
MRS.  BOYLE.     Next  Sunday  — 
MRS.  ALMS,     at  four  — 
MRS.  BOYLE,     couldn't  be  a  better  day  — 
MRS.  ALMS,     nor  a  better  hour. 
MRS.  BOYLE.     They'll  be  able  to  see  the  sunset  — 
MRS.  ALMS,     and  think  of  the  sunrise  — 
MRS.  BOYLE,     of  a  new  home  — 
MRS.  ALMS,     a  new  harmony  — 
MRS.  BOYLE,     nobler  than  any  heretofore  — 
MRS.  ALMS,     higher  than  any  hereafter. 
MRS.  WELLINGTON.     Thank  you,  conspirators  — 

that  will  do! 

MRS.  BOYLE.       Ah! 
MRS.  ALMS.       Ah! 

[They  rock  in  meditation.     Mrs.  Alms  rises  suddenly. 
MRS.  WELLINGTON.     What  are  you  up  to  now? 
MRS.  ALMS.     I  must  be  going  — 

I  must  be  telling  Mr.  Alms  — 

the  dear  man  will  be  so  overwhelmed  — 

and  may  I  tell  — 

I  wonder  would  you  mind? 

MRS.  WELLINGTON.       why  should  I? 

MRS.  ALMS,     just  one  or  two  in  advance? 
MRS.  WELLINGTON.     Certainly,  three  or  four, 

as  many  as  you  like. 
MRS.  ALMS.     Thank  you  kindly  — 

one  or  two  will  do  — 

that  sweet  Mrs.  Wiley 


ROCKING  CHAIRS  193 

and  that  cute  Mrs.  Carey  — 

they'll  be  ample. 

MRS.  BOYLE.     Why  them  in  particular? 
MRS.  ALMS  (laughing).     That  would  be  telling. 
MRS.  WELLINGTON.     I  know  why,  dear. 
MRS.  ALMS.     You're  so  clairvoyant ! 

[The  three  chuckle.     Mrs.   Boyle  rises.     Mrs.   Wellington 

tries  to  imitate  her,  but  is  detained. 
MRS.  BOYLE.     I  beg  of  you  — 

stay  just  one  moment  longer  — 

one  delicious  moment? 
MRS.  WELLINGTON.     I  never  decline  delicacies ! 

[Mrs.  Alms  cannot  conceal  her  disappointment,  but  manages 

to  blurt  forth  — 
MRS.  ALMS.     The  katydids  are  beginning  — 

I  really  must  run  along. 

[The  katydids  are  indeed  beginning  their  nasal  choral. 
MRS.  BOYLE.     Shall  I  show  you  out,  dear? 
MRS.  ALMS.     Not  at  all  necessary,  dear  — 

I  know  the  way  by  myself. 

Au  revoir,  Mrs.  Ambrose  Wellington. 
MRS.  WELLINGTON.     Au  plaisir! 
MRS.  ALMS.     Until  — 
MRS.  WELLINGTON.     Let  me  calculate  — 

this  is  Tuesday  — 

let  us  meet  — 

let  me  say,  Thursday  at  four. 
MRS.  ALMS  (eagerly).     Where? 
MRS.  BOYLE  (eagerly).     Here  again? 
MRS.  WELLINGTON.    At  Mrs.  Alms'  this  time,  don't  you  think? 

MRS.  BOYLE.      Oh! 
MRS.  ALMS.       Ah! 

MRS.  WELLINGTON.     And  we'll  confer  finally 

on  the  select  choice  of  names 

and  send  out  the  invitations. 
MRS.  ALMS.     Exactly! 
MRS.  BOYLE.     Precisely! 


194  ROCKING  CHAIRS 

MRS.  ALMS.  Good-by,  Mrs.  Boyle. 
MRS.  BOYLE.  Good-by,  Mrs.  Alms. 
MRS.  ALMS.  I  can't  begin  to  thank  you 

for  the  pleasant  afternoon. 

I  can't  begin  to  remember 

when  I  spent  a  pleasanter. 
MRS.  BOYLE.     Don't  mention  it,  dear! 

[They  kiss  ever  so  affectionately  with  a  historic,  short,  sharp 

sound.     Mrs.  Alms  nods  several  times  in  departing  —  mainly 

to  Mrs.  Wellington  —  and  leaves.     Mrs.  Boyle  returns  to 

her  chair  with  a  sigh. 
MRS.  BOYLE.     Thank  God,  that's  over! 
MRS.  WELLINGTON.     What's  over? 
MRS.  BOYLE.     Now  that  that  woman's  gone, 

we  can  have  such  a  tete-a-t£te. 
MRS.  WELLINGTON.     It'll  have  to  be  brief,  my  dear  — 

even  though  it  concern  Mrs.  Alms. 
MRS.  BOYLE.     How  you  do  understand ! 
MRS.  WELLINGTON.     You  credit  me  with  virtues 

I'm  totally  innocent  of. 
MRS.  BOYLE.     Innocent? 

A  woman  who's  caught  a  second  man  — 

such  a  lion,  a  dragon? 
MRS.  WELLINGTON.     Thanks  awfully  — 

but  we're  done  with  him. 

And  you  began  with  — 
MRS.  BOYLE,     that  woman,  yes. 

You  see  — 

I  didn't  want  to  say  anything  about  her  — 

I'm  not  the  kind  to  talk  about  friends. 

MRS.  WELLINGTON.       Obviously. 

MRS.  BOYLE.     Mrs.  Alms  is  a  dear  soul  — 
none  dearer  anywhere  — 
but  you  see  — 
when  a  woman  pretends, 
even  though  she's  a  bosom  friend  — 
don't  you  think  it  just  a  little  wrong  — 


ROCKING  CHAIRS  195 

don't  you  think  it  the  duty, 

however  painful, 

of  another  friend  — 

if  friendship  means  more  than  words  — 

to  take  her  down  a  trifle  — 

bring  her  down  from  her  false  height? 
MRS.  WELLINGTON.     Did  she  reach  too  high? 
MRS.  BOYLE.     Didn't  you  notice? 

MRS.  WELLINGTON.       I? no! 

MRS.  BOYLE.     You  angel  — 

you  know  very  well  you  did. 
MRS.  WELLINGTON.     When  —  where  —  how? 
MRS.  BOYLE.     You  want  me  to  tell ! 
MRS.  WELLINGTON.     No,  I'd  tell  if  I  knew  — 

but  I've  been  away  from  Jasmine 

just  the  least  while  too  long. 

I've  lost  track  of  — 
MRS.  BOYLE.     Jasmine  ways. 

You're  like  a  person 

who's  been  away  from  the  piano  — 

MRS.  WELLINGTON,     who  forgets  even  the  elementary  exer 
cises. 

MRS.  BOYLE.     That  excuses  you.     '..;<. 
MRS.  WELLINGTON.     Thanks  —  now  hurry  — 

the  katydids  are  growing 

thicker,  louder, 

nearer  to  the  dinner  bell. 
MRS.  BOYLE.     You  noticed,  did  you? 

MRS.  WELLINGTON.       What? 

MRS.  BOYLE.     How  the  women  referred  to  your 

not  wearing  black? 

MRS.  WELLINGTON.     Yes,  but  you  said  that  too?  — 
MRS.  BOYLE.     But  it  was  I,  not  she, 

who  said  this  very  afternoon, 

before  you  came  —  I  alone. 
MRS.  WELLINGTON.     It  was?  —  Then  how  noble  of  you 

to  let  her  take  the  credit  she  did ! 


196  ROCKING  CHAIRS 

MRS.  BOYLE.     Nothing  noble  about  it  — 

it  was  simply  my  duty  — 

not  alone  as  a  friend  — 

but  still  more  as  a  hostess  — 

not  to  contradict  her. 
MRS.  WELLINGTON.     Contradict? 
MRS.  BOYLE.     You'd  make  me  tell  all? 
MRS.  WELLINGTON.     Don't  I  deserve  the  confidence? 
MRS.  BOYLE.     Indeed  you  do  —  well  — 

will  you  believe  me  when  I  state 

that  that  woman  — 

I  know  you'll  say,  incredible !  — 
MRS.  WELLINGTON  (simulating  surprise).     No,  I  won't  —  I 

can  promise  you 

I  can  believe  almost  anything  now. 
MRS.  BOYLE.     You  can? 
MRS.  WELLINGTON.     Try  me! 
MRS.  BOYLE.     Well,  would  you  believe 

that  that  creature 

sat  here  this  very  afternoon, 

sipping  my  tea, 

there  in  that  very  rocker, 

so  still  now, 

and  said  things  behind  your  back 

she  didn't  say  to  your  face? 
MRS.  WELLINGTON.     Impossible! 
MRS.  BOYLE.     She  said  things  even  I 

don't  dare  repeat! 
MRS.  WELLINGTON.     For  instance? 
MRS.  BOYLE.     I  do  so  hate  to  tell  them  — 

the  woman  tries  her  best, 

but  she's  a  little  unfortunate  — 

not  as  successfully  married  as  we  are  — 

Mr.  Alms'  glass  works 

not  what  they  used  to  be  — 

and  that  sort  of  thing  — 

so  it's  hard  for  her  to  keep  up  appearances  —  • 


ROCKING  CHAIRS  197 

to  stand  the  gaff  of  competition  — 
climbing's  not  so  easy  as  it  was  — 
and  so  — 

MRS.  WELLINGTON.      and  SO 

MRS.  BOYLE,     she's  the  more  liable  to  make  missteps  — 

prone  to  miss  a  rung  or  two  — 

in  her  eagerness,  her  illusion, 

her  self-delusion  — 

quite  laudable  in  any  woman, 

but  so  grievous  in  its  failures  — 

pretensions  —  poor  woman  — 

you  know  what  I  mean  — 
MRS.  WELLINGTON.     Yes,  poor  dear. 
MRS.  BOYLE.     Your  pity  shows  the  heart  you  have. 
MRS.  WELLINGTON.     And  yours  shows  yours. 
MRS.  BOYLE.     But  that's  no  reason,  is  it, 

why  I  should  shirk  my  duty 

to  you  —  as  a  friend? 
MRS.  WELLINGTON.     And  a  hostess,  no  — 

but  don'l  mind  me  — 

don't  tell  if  it  hurts  you. 
MRS.  BOYLE.     The  need  of  self -surgery 

is  supreme  where  others  are  involved. 
MRS.  WELLINGTON.     How  I  envy  you  the  courage! 
MRS.  BOYLE.     You  have  it  too. 
MRS.  WELLINGTON.     On  the  contrary. 
MRS.  BOYLE.     Didn't  you  wear  red  — 

that  wild,  thrilling  bonnet  — 

when  everybody  expected,  demanded 

that  you  wear  black? 
MRS.  WELLINGTON.     How  else  could  I  interest  a  man 

sad  with  feeling  black  all  day  long? 
MRS.  BOYLE.     Artless  child! 

But  think  of  the  enemies  you  faced, 

the  unanimous  malice  you  courted. 
MRS.  WELLINGTON.     We've  been  through  that. 
MRS.  BOYLE.     But  we  haven't  been  through  all  — 

notice,  I  said,  unanimous. 


198  ROCKING  CHAIRS 

MRS.  WELLINGTON.     Ah  —  I  begin  to  see. 

MRS.  BOYLE.     Are  you  positive? 

MRS.  WELLINGTON.     Oh  —  what  a  treasure  you  are  - 

how  rare  —  what  a  rhinestone  1  — 

how  can  I  ever  repay  you? 
MRS.  BOYLE.     Spare  me  —  I  don't  deserve  it ! 
MRS.  WELLINGTON.     You  do  —  think  of  you  — 

a  saint  in  behalf  of  a  sinner  — 

you  alone  —  against  so  many  — • 

against  even  your  closest  friend* 
MRS.  BOYLE.     Yes,  Mrs.  Alms ! 

She  called  it  a  brazen,  scarlet  symbol  — 

think  of  that  — 

this  guileless  red  bonnet. 

MRS.  WELLINGTON.      Enough. 

MRS.  BOYLE.     She  called  you  for  flaunting  it  — 

flaunting  was  her  expression  — 
MRS.  WELLINGTON,     enough,  enough  — 
MRS.  BOYLE,     she  insinuated  that  your 

parading  —  as  she  termed  it  — 

back  and  forth  past  my  window  — 
MRS.  WELLINGTON.     You  have  told  me  all 

in  confiding  this  last, 

single,  solitary  detail. 
MRS.  BOYLE.     One  detail  is  sufficient? 
MRS.  WELLINGTON.     Among  friends,  yes,  indeed! 

[She  rises,  so  does  Mrs.  Boyle. 
MRS.  BOYLE  (apprehensive).     Well? 
MRS.  WELLINGTON.     I  don't  feel  — 

MRS.  BOYLE.      Yes?  — 

MRS.  WELLINGTON.     I  don't  feel  it  would  be  wise  — 
do  you  —  for  me  to  betray  what  I  feel? 

MRS.  BOYLE  (disappointed).     No? 

MRS.  WELLINGTON.     I  mean  — 

that  would  be  showing  my  cards  — 
her  expression,  wasn't  it? 

MRS.  BOYLE.     Just  like  her. 


ROCKING  CHAIRS  199 

MRS.  WELLINGTON.     I  suggest  the  committee 
should  go  on  as  it  started  — 
as  though  no  disturbing, 
foreign  element  were  present. 

MRS.  BOYLE.       Oh? 

MRS.  WELLINGTON.     I  mean  —  the  two  of  us  — 

MRS.  BOYLE  (eagerly),     us  two?  — 

MRS.  WELLINGTO"N.     will  have  the  additional  pleasure 

of  watching  the  antics  in  our  midst 

of  an  additional  person. 

There's  never  enough  merriment 

on  God's  sad  earth,  is  there,  dear? 
MRS.  BOYLE  (gratefully).     No,  no! 

Never  half  enough ! 

You  dear,  dear,  dear  — 
MRS.  WELLINGTON.     One  dear  will  do,  sweet  ally! 

[She  stretches  out  her  hand. 
MRS.  BOYLE.     Oh,  but  let  me  see  you  to  the  door!     (She 

bends  forward  to  kiss  Mrs.  Wellington,  who  submits  grace 
fully)     How  can  I  begin? 
MRS.  WELLINGTON.     Don't  begin,  dear  — 

it's  so  late  — 

MRS.  BOYLE,     and  I  feel  so  much  — 
MRS.  WELLINGTON,     you'd  never  reach  the  end 

till  midnight  or  dawn. 
MRS.  BOYLE.     Until  Thursday  then? 

MRS.  WELLINGTON.      At  four  — 

MRS.  BOYLE,     at  Mrs.  Alms? 

In  the  mouse's 

own  little  mouse-trap? 

MRS.  WELLINGTON.  With  crackers  and  cheese  on  the  side! 
MRS.  BOYLE.  You  incorrigible!  (Mrs.  Wellington  starts  for 
the  door,  adjusting  her  hat  on  the  way.  Mrs.  Boyle  bustles  close 
behind)  Adorable  brazen  symbol ! 

It  looks  like  a  headlight  — 

a  danger  signal! 
MRS.  WELLINGTON.     How  you  imagine  everything! 


200  ROCKING  CHAIRS 

MRS.  BOYLE.     Like  the  flag  of  a  general 

leading  his  army  single-handed !  — 
MRS.  WELLINGTON,     double-handed,  my  dear! 
MRS.  BOYLE.     Your  standard-bearer ! 
MRS.  WELLINGTON.     My  ensign,  dear. 
MRS.  BOYLE.     Call  me  Arabella! 

MRS.  WELLINGTON.    And  you  must  call  me  Katherine! 
MRS.  BOYLE.     Katherine!! 

[They  disappear.     The  stage  is  empty.     But  not  the  world 

just  outside  the  French  window.     Presently,  two  katydids, 

or  a  myriad  of  twos,  swinging  on  leaves  or  grass  blades,  begin 

a  high,  nasal,  mysterious  colloquy. 

Katy  did  —  Katy  didn't  — 

Katy  did  —  Katy  didn't  — 

she  did  —  she  didn't  — 

she  did  so  —  she  did  not  — 

I  say  she  did  —  I  say  she  didn't  — 

I  know  she  did  —  I  know  she  didn't  — 

she  told  me  —  she  did  not  — 

she  did  so  —  she  told  ine  — 

she  did  not  —  she  did  — 

Katy  didn't  —  Katy  did  — 

Katy  didn't  —  Katy  did  — 

she  didn't  —  she  did  — 

she  did  not  —  she  did  so  — 

I  say  she  didn't  —  I  say  she  did  — 

you're  a  liar  —  you're  another  — 

Katy  did  —  Katy  didn't  — 

Katy  did  —  Katy  didn't  — 

Katy  did  —  Katy  didn't  - 

[The  curtain  falls  ever  so  sleepily. 


MANIKIN  AND  MINIKIN 

A  BISQUE  PLAY 


BY  ALFRED  KREYMBORG 


"Manikin  and  Minikin"  was  originally  produced  by  the 
St.  Louis  Players. 

Original  Cast 

MANIKIN Susan  Cost 

MINIKIN  Cornelia  McNair 


COPTBIOHT,   1918,   BT  THE  OTHERS  PRESS. 

All  rights  reserved. 

No  performance  of  this  play,  either  amateur  or  professional,  may  be  given  except  by  special 
arrangement  with  the  author's  representative,  Mr.  Norman  Lee  Swartout,  Summit.  N.  J. 


MANIKIN  AND  MINIKIN 

Seen  through  an  oval  frame,  one  of  the  walls  of  a  parlor. 
The  wall  paper  is  a  conventionalized  pattern.  Only  the  shelf 
of  the  mantelpiece  shows.  At  each  end,  seated  on  pedestals 
turned  slightly  away  from  one  another,  two  aristocratic  bisque 
figures,  a  boy  in  delicate  cerise  and  a  girl  in  cornflower  blue. 
Their  shadows  join  in  a  grotesque  silhouette.  In  the  center,  an 
ancient  clock  whose  tick  acts  as  the  metronome  for  the  sound  of 
their  high  voices.  Presently,  the  mouths  of  the  figures  open  and 
shut  after  the  mode  of  ordinary  conversation. 

SHE.     Manikin ! 

HE.     Minikin? 

SHE.     That  fool  of  a  servant  has  done  it  again. 

HE.     I  should  say,  she's  more  than  a  fool. 

SHE.     A  meddlesome  busybody  — 

HE.     A  brittle-fingered  noddy ! 

SHE.     Which  way  are  you  looking?    What  do  you  see? 

HE.     The  everlasting  armchair, 

the  everlasting  tiger  skin, 

the  everlasting  yellow,  green  and  purple  books, 

the  everlasting  portrait  of  milord. 
SHE.     Oh,  these  Yankees !  —  and  I  see 

the  everlasting  rattan  rocker* 

the  everlasting  samovar, 

the  everlasting  noisy  piano,. 

the  everlasting  portrait  of  milady  ^ 
HE.     Simpering  spectacle! 
SHE.     What  does  she  want,  always  dusting? 
HE.     I  should  say  — 

that  is,  I'd  consider  the  thought  — 
SHE.     You'd  consider  a  lie  — 

oh,  Manikin! 

You're  trying  to  defend  her ! 


204  MANIKIN  AND  MINIKIN 

HE.     I'm  not  defending  her ! 
SHE.     You're  trying  to. 
HE.     I'm  not  trying  to. 
•   SHE.     Then  what  are  you  trying  to  —  ? 
HE.     Well,  I'd  venture  to  say, 

if  she'd  only  stay  away  some  morning  — 
SHE.     That's  what  I  say  in  my  dreams! 
HE.     She  and  her  broom  — 
SHE.     Her  everlasting  broom  — 
HE.     She  wouldn't  be  sweeping  — 
SHE.     Every  corner,  every  cranny,  every  crevice. 
HE.     And  the  dust  wouldn't  move  — 
SHE.     Wouldn't  crawl,  wouldn't  rise,  wouldn't  fly  — 
HE.     And  cover  us  all  over  — 
SHE.     Like  a  spider-web  —  ugh ! 
HE.     Everlasting  dust  has  been  most  of  our  life  — 
SHE.     Everlasting  years  and  years  of  dust ! 
HE.     You  on  your  lovely  blue  gown  — 
SHE.     And  you  on  your  manly  pink  cloak. 
HE.     If  she  didn't  sweep,  we  wouldn't  need  dusting. 
SHE.     Nor  need  taking  down,  I  should  say  — 
HE.     With  her  stupid,  clumsy  hands  — 
SHE.     Her  crooked,  monkey  paws. 
HE.     And  we  wouldn't  need  putting  back  — 
SHE.     I  with  my  back  to  you  — 
HE.     I  with  my  back  to  you. 
.    SHE.     It's  been  hours,  days,  weeks  — 

by  the  sound  of  that  everlasting  clock  — 

and  the  coming  of  day  and  the  going  of  day  — 

since  I  saw  you  last ! 
HE.     What's  the  use  of  the  sun 

with  its  butterfly  wings  of  light  — 

what's  the  use  of  a  sun  made  to  see  by  — 

if  I  can't  see  you! 
SHE.     Manikin ! 
HE.     Minikin? 
SHE.     Say  that  again! 


MANIKIN  AND  MINIKIN  205 

HE.     Why  should  I  say  it  again  —  don't  you  know? 

SHE.     I  know  —  but  sometimes  I  doubt. 

HE.     Why  do  you,  what  do  you  doubt? 

SHE.     Please  say  it  again! 

HE.     What's  the  use  of  a  sun  — 

SHE.     What's  the  use  of  a  sun? 

HE.     l"hat  was  made  to  see  by  — 

SHE.     That  was  made  to  see  by? 

HE.     If  I  can't  see  you! 

SHE.     Oh,  Manikin! 

HE.     Minikin? 

SHE.     If  you  hadn't  said  that  again, 

my  doubt  would  have  filled  a  balloon. 
HE.     Your  doubt,  —  which  doubt,  what  doubt? 
SHE.     And  although  I  can't  move, 

although  I  can't  move  unless  somebody  shoves  me, 

one  of  these  days  when  the  sun  isn't  here, 

I  would  have  slipped  over  the  edge 

of  this  everlasting  shelf  — 
HE.     Minikin ! 
SHE.     And  fallen  to  that  everlasting  floor 

into  so  many  fragments, 

they'd  never  rjaste  Minikin  together  again! 
HE.     Minikin,  Minikin! 
SHE.     They'd  have  to  set  another  here  — 

some  Ninikin,  I'm  assured! 
HE.     Why  do  you  chatter  so,  prattle  so? 
SHE.     Because  of  my  doubt  — 

because  I'm  as  positive  as  I  am 

that  I  sit  here  with  my  knees  in  a  knot  — 

that  that  human  creature  —  loves  you. 
HE.    Loves  me? 
SHE.     And  you  her! 
HE.     Minikin ! 
SHE.     When    she    takes    us    down    she   holds   you    much 

longer. 
HE.     Minikin! 


206  MANIKIN  AND  MINIKIN 

SHE.     I'm  sufficiently  feminine  — 

and  certainly  old  enough  — 

I  and  my  hundred  and  seventy  years  — 

I  can  see,  I  can  feel 

by  her  manner  of  touching  me 

and  her  flicking  me  with  her  mop  — 

the  creature  hates  me. 

She'd  like  to  drop  me,  that's  what  she  would! 
HE.     Minikin ! 
SHE.     Don't  you  venture  defending  her ! 

Booby  —  you  don't  know  live  women ! 

When  I'm  in  the  right  position 

I  can  note  how  she  fondles  you; 

pets  you  like  a  parrot  with  her  finger  tip; 

blows  a  pinch  of  dust  from  your  eye 

with  her  softest  breath; 

holds  you  off  at  arm's  length 

and  fixes  you  with  that  spider  look; 

actually  holds  you  against  her  cheek  — 

before  she  releases  you ! 

If  she  didn't  turn  us  apart  so  often, 

I  wouldn't  charge  her  with  insinuation; 

but  now  I  know  she  loves  you  — 

she's  as  jealous  as  I  am  — 

and  poor  dead  me  in  her  love  power! 

Manikin? 
HE.     Minikin? 
SHE.     If  you  could  see  me  — 

the  way  you  see  her  — 
HE.     But  I  see  you  — 

see  you  always  —  see  only  you ! 
SHE.     If  you  could  see  me, 

the  way  you  see  her, 

you'd  still  love  me, 

you'd  love  me  the  way  you  do  her! 

Who  made  me  what  I  am? 

Who  dreamed  me  in  motionless  clay? 


MANIKIN  AND  MINIKIN  207 

HE.     Minikin? 

SHE.     Manikin? 

HE.     Will  you  listen  to  me? 

SHE.     No ! 

HE.     Will  you  listen  to  me? 

SHE.     No ! 

HE.     Will  you  listen  to  me? 

SHE.     Yes. 

HE.     I  love  you  — 

SHE.     No ! 

HE.     I've  always  loved  you  —  ^ 

SHE.     No. 

HE.     You  doubt  that?  -     < 

SHE.     Yes ! 

HE.     You  doubt  that? 

SHE.     Yes! 

HE.     You  doubt  that?  v 

SHE.     No. 

You've  always  loved  me  — 

yes  — 

but  you  don't  love  me  now  — 

no  — 

not  since  that  rose-face  encountered  your  glance. 

No!  * 

HE.     Minikin!  d 

SHE.     If  I  could  only  move  aboutt  the  way  she  can  — 

if  I  had  feet  — 

dainty  white  feet  which  could  '  winkle  and  twirl  — 

I'd  dance  you  so  prettily 

you'd  think  me  a  sun  butterfly. 

If  I  could  let  down  my  hair 

And  prove  you  it's  longer  than  larch  hair  — 

if  I  could  raise  my  black  brows, 

or  shrug  my  narrow  shoulders 

like  a  queen  or  a  countess  — 

if  I  could  turn  my  head,  tilt  my  head 

this  way  and  that,  like  a  swan  — 


208  MANIKIN  AND  MINIKIN 

ogle  my  eyes,  like  a  peacock, 

till  you'd  marvel, 

they're  green,  nay,  violet,  nay,  yellow,  nay,  gold 

If  I  could  move,  only  move 

just  the  moment  of  an  inch  — 

you  would  see  what  I  could  be ! 

It's  a  change,  it's  a  change, 

you  men  ask  of  women ! 
HE.    A  change? 
SHE.     You're  eyesick,  heartsick 

of  seeing  the  same  foolish  porcelain  thing, 

a  hundred  years  old, 

a  hundred  and  fifty. 

and  sixty  and  seven 'y  — 

I  don't  know  how  old  I  am! 
HE.     Not  an  exhalation  older  than  I  — 

not  an  exhalation  ypunger! 

Minikin?  * 

SHE.     Manikin? 
HE.     Will  you  listen  to  i  ne? 
SHE.     No!  i 

HE.     Will  you  listen  to  m^? 
SHE.     No. 

HE.     Will  you  listen  to  nrv^? 
SHE.     Yes.  i 

HE.     I  don't  love  that  creature. 
SHE.     You  do. 

HE.     I  can't  love  that  creature. 
SHE.     You  can. 
HE.     Will  you  listen  to  me? 
SHE.     Yes  — 

if  you'll  tell  me  — 

if  you'll  prove  mtf  — 

so  my  last  particle  of  dust  — 

the  tiniest  speck  of  a  molecule  — 

the  merest  electron  — 
HE.     Are  you  listening? 


MANIKIN  AND  MINIKIN  209 

SHE.     Yes ! 

HE.     To  begin  with  — 

I  dislike,  suspect,  deplore  — 

I  had  best  say,  feel  compassion 

for  what  is  called  humanity  — 

or  the  animate,  as  opposed  to  the  inanimate. 
SHE.     You  say  that  so  wisely  — 

you're  such  a  philosopher  — 

Say  it  again ! 
HE.     That  which  is  able  to  move 

can  never  be  steadfast,  you  understand? 

Let  us  consider  the  creature  at  hand 

to  whom  you  have  referred 

with  an  undue  excess  of  admiration 

adulterated  with  an  undue  excess  of  envy. 
SHE.     Say  that  again! 
HE.     To  begin  with  — 

I  can  only  see  part  of  her  at  once. 

She  moves  into  my  vision; 

she  moves  out  of  my  vision; 

she  is  doomed  to  be  wayward. 
SHE.     Yes,  but  that  which  you  can  see  of  her  — - 
HE.     Is  ugly,  commonplace,  unsightly. 

Her  face  a  rose-face? 

It's  veined  with  blood  and  the  skin  of  it  wrinkles; 

her  eyes  are  ever  so  near  to  a  hen's; 

her  movements  — 

if  one  would  pay  such  a  gait  with  regard  — 

her  gait  is  unspeakably  ungainly; 

her  hair  — 
SHE.     Her  hair? 
HE.     Luckily  I've  never  seen  it  down. 

I  daresay  it  comes  down  in  the  dark; 

when  it  looks,  most  assuredly,  like  tangled  weeds. 
SHE.     Again,  Manikin,  that  dulcet  phrase ! 
HE.     Even  were  she  beautiful, 

she  were  never  so  beautiful  as  thou ! 


210  MANIKIN  AND  MINIKIN 

SHE.     Now  you're  a  poet,  Manikin ! 

HE.     Even  were  she  so  beautiful  as  thou  — 

lending  her  your  eyes,  and 

the  exquisite  head  which  holds  them 

like  a  cup  two  last  beads  of  wine, 

like  a  stone  two  last  drops  of  rain, 

green,  nay,  violet,  nay,  yellow,  nay,  gold  — 
SHE.     Faster,  Manikin! 
HE.     I  can't,  Minikin! 

Words  were  never  given  to  man 

to  phrase  such  a  one  as  you  are. 

Inanimate  symbols 

can  never  embrace,  embody,  hold 

the  animate  dream  that  you  are. 

I  must  cease. 
SHE.  Manikin ! 
HE.  And  even  were  she  so  beautiful  as  thou, 

she  couldn't  stay  beautiful. 
SHE.     Stay  beautiful? 
HE.     Humans  change  with  each  going  moment. 

That  is  a  gray-haired  platitude. 

Just  as  I  can  see  that  creature 

only  when  she  touches  my  vision, 

so  I  could  only  see  her  once,  were  she  beautiful 

at  best,  twice  or  thrice. 

You're  more  precious  than  when  you  came! 
SHE.     And  you! 
HE.     Human  pathos  penetrates  still  deeper 

when  one  determines  their  inner  life, 

as  we've  pondered  their  outer. 

Their  inner  changes  far  more  desperately. 
SHE.     How  so,  wise  Manikin? 
HE.     They  have  what  philosophy  terms  moods, 

and  moods  are  more  pervious  to  modulation 

than  pools  to  idle  breezes. 

These  people  may  say  —  to  begin  with  — 

I  love  you. 


MANIKIN  AND  MINIKIN 


This  may  be  true,  I'm  assured  — 

as  true  as  when  we  say,  I  love  you. 

But  they  can  only  say, 

I  love  you, 

so  long  as  the  mood  breathes, 

so  long  as  the  breezes  blow, 

so  long  as  water  remains  wet. 

They  are  honest  — 

they  mean  what  they  say  — 

passionately,  tenaciously,  tragically  — 

but  when  the  mood  languishes, 

they  have  to  say, 

if  it  be  they  are  honest  — 

I  do  not  love  you. 

Or  they  have  to  say, 

I  love  you, 

to  somebody  else. 
SHE.     To  somebody  else? 
HE.     Now,  you  and  I  — 

we've  said  that  to  each  other  — 

we've  had  to  say  it 

for  a  hundred  and  seventy  years  — 

and  we'll  have  to  say  it  always. 
SHE.     Say  "always"  again! 
HE.     The  life  of  an  animate  — 
SHE.     Say  "always"  again! 
HE.     Always  ! 

The  life  of  an  animate 

is  a  procession  .of  deaths, 

with  but  a  secret  sorrowing  candle, 

guttering  lower  and  lower, 

on  the  path  to  the  grave. 

The  life  of  an  inanimate 

is  as  serenely  enduring 

as  all  things  are. 
SHE.  Still  things? 
HE.  Recall  our  childhood  in  the  English  museum 

ere  we  were  moved, 


MANIKIN  AND  MINIKIN 


from  place  to  place, 

to  this  dreadful  Yankee  salon. 

Do  you  remember 

that  little  old  Greek  tanagra 

of  the  girl  with  a  head  like  a  bud  — 

that  little  old  Roman  medallion 

of  the  girl  with  a  head  like  a  — 
SHE.     Manikin,  Manikin  — 

were  they  so  beautiful  as  I? 

Did  you  love  them,  too? 

Why  do  you  bring  them  back? 
HE.     They  were  not  so  beautiful  as  thou. 

I  spoke  of  them  — 

recalled,  designated  them  — 

well,  because  they  were  ages  old  — 

and  —  and  — 
SHE.     And  —  and? 
HE.     And  we  might  live  as  long  as  they  — 

as  they  did  and  do  ! 

I  hinted  their  existence 

because  they're  not  so  beautiful  as  thou, 

so  that  by  contrast  and  deduction  — 
SHE.     And  deduction? 
HE.     You  know  what  I'd  say. 
SHE.    But  say  it  again! 
HE.     I  love  you  ! 
SHE.     Manikin? 
HE.     Minikin? 
SHE.    Then,  even  though  that  creature  has  turned  us  apart, 

can  you  see  me? 
HE.     I  can  see  you. 
SHE.     Even  though  you  haven't  seen  me 

for  hours,  days,  weeks  — 

with  your  dear  blue  eyes  — 

you  can  see  me 

with  your  hidden  ones? 
HE.     I  can  see  you. 


MANIKIN  AND  MINIKIN  213 

SHE.     Even  though  you  are  still, 

and  calm,  and  smooth, 

and  lovely  outside  — 

you  aren't  still  and  calm 

and  smooth  and  lovely  inside? 
HE.     Lovely  —  yes  — 

but  not  still  and  calm  and  smooth! 
SHE.     Which  way  are  you  looking?     What  do  you  see? 
HE.     I  look  at  you. 

I  see  you. 
SHE.     And  if  that  fool  of  a  servant  — 

oh,  Manikin  — 

suppose  she  should  break  the  future  — 

our  great,  happy  centuries  ahead  — 

by  dropping  me,  throwing  me  down? 
HE.     I  should  take  an  immediate  step 

off  this  everlasting  shelf  — 
SHE.     But  you  cannot  move! 
HE.     The  good  wind  would  give  me  a  blow! 
SHE.     Now  you're  a  punster ! 

And  what  would  your  fragments  do? 
HE.     They'd  do  what  Manikin  did. 
:SHE.     Say  that  again ! 
HE.     They'd  do  what  Manikin  did. 
SHE.     Manikin? 
HE.     Minikin? 

SHE.     Shall  I  tell  you  something? 
HE.     Tell  me  something. 
SHE.     Are  you  listening? 
HE.     With  my  inner  ears. 
SHE.     I  wasn't  jealous  of  that  woman. 
HE.     You  weren't  jealous? 
SHE.     I  wanted  to  hear  you  talk. 
HE.     You  wanted  to  hear  me  talk? 
SHE.     You  talk  so  wonderfully ! 
HE.     Do  I,  indeed?     What  a  booby  I  am! 
SHE.     And  I  wanted  to  hear  you  say  — 


MANIKIN  AND  MINIKIN 


HE.     You  cheat,  you  idler,  you  — 

SHE.     Woman  — 

HE.     Dissembler  ! 

SHE.     Manikin? 

HE.     Minikin? 

SHE.     Everlastingly? 

HE.     Everlastingly. 

SHE.     Say  it  again  ! 

HE.     I  refuse. 

SHE.    You  refuse? 

HE.    Well- 

SHE.    Well? 

HE.     You  have  ears  outside  your  head  — 

I'll  say  that  for  you  — 

but  they'll  never  hear  — 

what  your  other  ears  heard! 
SHE.     Say  it  — 

down  one  of  my  ears  — 

outside  my  head? 
HE.     I  refuse. 
SHE.    You  refuse? 
HE.    Leave  me  alone. 
SHE.     Manikin? 
HE.     I  can't  say  it! 
SHE.     Manikin  ! 

[The  clock  goes  on  ticking  for  a  moment.    Its  mellow  chimes 

strike  the  hour.     Curtain. 


THE  DEATH  OF  TINTAGILES 

MAURICE  MAETERLINCK 

MAURICE  MAETERLINCK  was  born  August  29,  18G2,  at 
Brussels,  Belgium.  He  is  famous  as  a  poet,  naturalist, 
philosopher  and  playwright.  "La  Mort  de  Tintagiles"  was 
originally  published  in  1894,  but  was  not  produced  until 
1899.  The  best  study  of  Maeterlinck  is  by  Una  Taylor. 
In  "Prophets  of  Dissent",  O.  Heller  has  an  illuminating 
chapter  entitled  Maeterlinck,  the  Mystic. 


THE  DEATH  OF  TINTAGILES 

A  PLAY  IN  FIVE  ACTS 


BY  MAURICE  MAETERLINCK 


Characters 
TINTAGILES 

YGKAINE  \SistersofTintagiles 

BELLANGERE     j 

AGLOVALE 

THREE  SERVANTS  OF  THE  QUEEN 


THE  DEATH  OF  TINTAGILES 
ACT  I 

SCENE.     On  the  top  of  a  hill  overlooking  the  castle.    Enter 
Ygraine,  holding  Tintagiles  by  the  hand. 

YGRAINE.  Your  first  night  will  be  sad,  Tintagiles.  The  roar 
of  the  sea  is  already  about  us;  and  the  trees  are  moaning. 
It  is  late.  The  moon  is  sinking  behind  the  poplars  that 
stifle  the  palace.  We  are  alone,  perhaps;  but  here,  one 
has  ever  to  be  on  one's  guard.  They  seem  to  watch  lest 
the  smallest  happiness  come  near.  I  said  to  myself  one 
day,  right  down  in  the  depths  of  my  soul  —  and  God  him 
self  could  scarcely  hear  —  I  said  to  myself  one  day  that 
I  was  feeling  almost  happy.  There  needed  nothing  more; 
and  very  soon  after,  our  old  father  died,  and  our  two 
brothers  disappeared,  and  not  a  living  creature  can  tell 
us  where  they  are.  I  am  here  all  alone,  with  my  poor 
sister  and  you,  my  little  Tintagiles;  and  I  have  no  con 
fidence  in  the  future.  Come  to  me;  let  me  take  you  on 
my  knees.  First  kiss  me;  and  put  your  little  arms  — 
there  —  right  around  my  neck;  perhaps  they  will  not  be 
able  to  unfasten  them.  Do  you  remember  the  time  when 
it  was  I  who  carried  you  in  the  evening,  when  the  hour 
had  come;  and  how  frightened  you  were  at  the  shadows 
of  my  lamp  in  the  corridors,  those  long  corridors  with 
not  a  single  window?  I  felt  my  soul  tremble  on  my  lips 
when  I  saw  you  again,  suddenly,  this  morning.  I  thought 
you  were  so  far  away,  and  in  safety.  Who  made  you  come 
here? 

TINTAGILES.     I  do  not  know,  little  sister. 

YGRAINE.     Do  you  remember  what  they  said? 

TINTAGILES.     They  said  I  must  go  away. 

YGRAINE.     But  why  had  you  to  go  away? 


220  THE  DEATH  OF  TINTAGILES 

TINTAGILES.     Because  the  Queen  wished  it. 

YGRAINE.  Did  they  not  say  why  she  wished  it?  —  I  am  sure 
they  must  have  said  many  things. 

TINTAGILES.     Little  sister,  I  did  not  hear. 

YGRAINE.  When  they  spoke  among  themselves,  what  was  it 
they  said? 

TINTAGILES.  Little  sister,  they  dropped  their  voices  when 
they  spoke. 

YGRAINE.     All  the  time? 

TINTAGILES.  All  the  time,  sister  Ygraine;  except  when  they 
looked  at  me. 

YGRAINE.     Did  they  say  nothing  about  the  Queen? 

TINTAGILES.  They  said,  sister  Ygraine,  that  no  one  ever 
saw  her. 

YGRAINE.  And  the  people  who  were  with  you  on  the  ship, 
did  they  say  nothing? 

TINTAGILES.  They  gave  all  their  time  to  the  wind  and  the 
sails,  sister  Ygraine. 

YGRAINE.     Ah!    That  does  not  surprise  me,  my  child. 

TINTAGILES.     They  left  me  all  alone,  little  sister. 

YGRAINE.  Listen  to  me,  Tintagiles.  I  will  tell  you  what  I 
know. 

TINTAGILES.     What  do  you  know,  sister  Ygraine? 

YGRAINE.  Very  little,  my  child.  My  sister  and  I  have  gone 
on  living  here  ever  since  we  were  born,  not  daring  to  under 
stand  the  things  that  happened.  I  have  lived  a  long  time 
on  this  island,  and  I  might  as  well  have  been  blind;  yet 
it  all  seemed  natural  to  me.  A  bird  that  flew,  a  leaf  that 
trembled,  a  rose  that  opened  —  these  were  events  to  me. 
Such  silence  has  always  reigned  here  that  a  ripe  fruit 
falling  in  the  park  would  draw  faces  to  the  window.  And 
no  one  seemed  to  have  any  suspicion;  but  one  night  I 
learned  that  there  must  be  something  besides.  I  wished 
to  escape  and  I  could  not.  Have  you  understood  what 
I  am  telling  you? 

TINTAGILES.  Yes,  yes,  little  sister;  I  can  understand  any 
thing. 


THE  DEATH  OF  TINTAGILES 


YGRAINE.  Then  let  us  not  talk  any  more  of  these  things; 
one  does  not  know.  Do  you  see,  behind  the  dead  trees 
which  poison  the  horizon,  do  you  see  the  castle,  there, 
right  down  in  the  valley? 

TINTAGILES.  I  see  something  very  black  —  is  that  the 
castle,  sister  Ygraine? 

YGRAINE.  Yes,  it  is  very  black.  It  lies  far  down  amid  a 
mass  of  gloomy  shadows.  It  is  there  that  we  have  to  live. 
They  might  have  built  it  on  the  top  of  the  great  mountains 
that  surround  it.  The  mountains  are  blue  in  the  day 
time.  One  could  have  breathed;  one  could  have  looked 
down  on  the  sea  and  on  the  plains  beyond  the  cliffs.  But 
they  preferred  to  build  it  deep  down  in  the  valley;  too 
low  even  for  the  air  to  come.  It  is  falling  in  ruins,  and  no 
one  troubles.  The  walls  are  crumbling;  it  might  be  fading 
away  in  the  gloom.  There  is  only  one  tower  which  time 
does  not  touch.  It  is  enormous;  and  its  shadow  is  always 
on  the  house. 

TINTAGILES.  They  are  lighting  something,  sister  Ygraine. 
See,  see,  the  great  red  windows  ! 

YGRAINE.  They  are  the  windows  of  the  tower,  Tintagiles; 
they  are  the  only  ones  in  which  you  will  ever  see  light; 
it  is  there  that  the  Queen  has  her  throne. 

TINTAGILES.     Shall  I  not  see  the  Queen? 

YGRAINE.     No  one  can  see  her. 

TINTAGILES.     Why  can  no  one  see  her? 

YGRAINE.  Come  closer,  Tintagiles.  Not  even  a  bird  or  a 
blade  of  grass  must  hear  us. 

TINTAGILES.  There  is  no  grass,  little  sister.  (A  moment's 
silence)  What  does  the  Queen  do? 

YGRAINE.  That  no  one  knows,  my  child.  She  is  never  seen. 
She  lives  there,  all  alone  in  the  tower;  and  those  who  wait 
on  her  do  not  go  out  by  daylight.  She  is  very  old;  she 
is  the  mother  of  our  mother,  and  she  wishes  to  reign  alone. 
She  is  suspicious  and  jealous,  and  they  say  she  is  mad. 
She  is  afraid  lest  some  one  should  raise  himself  to  her  place; 
and  it  is  probably  because  of  this  fear  of  hers  that  you  have 


222  THE  DEATH  OF  TINTAG1LES 

been  brought  hither.  Her  orders  are  carried  out;  but  no 
one  knows  how.  She  never  leaves  the  tower,  and  all  the 
gates  are  closed  night  and  day.  I  have  never  seen  her, 
but  it  seems  others  have,  long  ago,  when  she  was  young. 

TINTAGILES.     Is  she  very  ugly,  sister  Ygraine? 

YGRAINE.  They  say  she  is  not  beautiful  and  that  her  form  is 
strange.  But  those  who  have  seen  her  dare  not  speak  to 
her.  And  who  knows  whether  they  have  seen  her?  She 
has  a  power  which  we  do  not  understand,  and  we  live  here 
with  a  terrible  weight  on  our  soul.  You  must  not  be  un 
duly  frightened,  or  have  bad  dreams;  we  will  watch  over 
you,  little  Tintagiles,  and  no  harm  can  come  to  you; 
but  do  not  stray  far  from  me,  or  your  sister  Bellangere, 
or  our  old  master  Aglovale.  * 

TINTAGILES.     Aglovale  too,  sister  Ygraine? 

YGRAINE.     Aglovale  too,  —  he  loves  us. 

TINTAGILES.     He  is  so  old,  little  sister ! 

YGRAINE.  He  is  old,  but  very  wise.  He  is  the  only  friend 
we  have  left;  and  he  knows  many  things.  It  is  strange; 
she  made  you  come  here,  and  no  one  was  told  of  it.  I  do 
not  know  what  is  in  my  heart.  I  was  sorrowful  and  glad 
to  know  that  you  were  far  away,  beyond  the  sea.  And 
now  —  I  was  taken  by  surprise.  I  went  out  this  morning 
to  see  whether  the  sun  was  rising  over  the  mountains; 
and  I  saw  you  on  the  threshold.  I  knew  you  at  once. 

TINTAGILES.  No,  no,  little  sister;  it  was  I  who  laughed 
first. 

YGRAINE.  I  could  not  laugh  —  just  then.  You  will  under 
stand.  It  is  time,  Tintagiles,  and  the  wind  is  becoming 
black  on  the  sea.  Kiss  me  before  getting  up;  kiss  me, 
harder  —  again,  again.  You  do  not  know  how  one  loves. 
Give  me  your  little  hand.  I  will  keep  it  in  mine  and  we 
will  go  back  to  the  old  sick  castle. 
[They  go  out. 


THE  DEATH  OF  TINTAGILES  223 

ACT  II 

SCENE.     A  room  in  the  castle,  in  which  Aglovale  and  Ygraine 
are  seated.     Enter  Bellangere. 

BELLANGERE.     Where  is  Tintagiles? 

YGRAINE.  He  is  here;  do  not  speak  too  loud.  He  is  asleep 
in  the  other  room.  He  was  a  little  pale,  he  did  not  seem 
well.  The  journey  had  tired  him  —  he  was  a  long  time 
on  the  sea.  Or  perhaps  it  is  the  atmosphere  of  the  castle 
which  has  alarmed  his  little  soul.  He  was  crying,  and  did 
not  know  why  he  cried.  I  nursed  him  on  my  knees;  come, 
look  at  him.  He  is  asleep  in  our  bed.  He  sleeps  very 
gravely,  with  one  hand  on  his  brow,  like  a  little  sorrowful 
king. 

BELLANGERE  (suddenly  bursting  into  tears).  Sister!  Sister! 
my  poor  sister ! 

YGRAINE.     Why  are  you  crying? 

BELLANGERE.  I  dare  not  tell  what  I  know;  and  I  am  not 
sure  that  I  know  anything.  But  yet  I  have  heard  —  that 
which  one  could  not  hear. 

YGRAINE.     What  have  you  heard  ? 

BELLANGERE.  I  was  passing  close  to  the  corridors  of  the 
tower  — 

YGRAINE.       Ah ! 

BELLANGERE.  One  of  the  doors  was  ajar.  I  pushed  it  very 
gently.  I  went  in. 

YGRAINE.     Where? 

BELLANGERE.  I  had  never  seen.  There  were  other  corridors 
lighted  with  lamps;  and  then  low  galleries,  which  seemed 
to  have  no  end.  I  knew  it  was  forbidden  to  go  farther. 
I  was  afraid  and  was  about  to  turn  back,  but  there  was  a 
sound  of  voices  —  though  one  could  scarcely  hear. 

YGRAINE.  It  must  have  been  the  servants  of  the  Queen; 
they  live  at  the  foot  of  the  tower. 

BELLANGERE.  I  do  not -know  quite  what  it  was.  There 
must  have  been  more  than  one  door  between;  and  the 
voices  came  to  me  like  the  voices  of  some  one  who  is  being 


224  THE  DEATH  OF  TINTAGILES 

strangled.  I  went  as  near  as  I  could.  I  am  not  sure  of 
anything;  but  I  believe  they  were  speaking  of  a  child  who 
had  arrived  to-day,  and  of  a  crown  of  gold.  They  seemed 
to  be  laughing. 

YGRAINE.     They  were  laughing? 

BELLANGERE.  Yes,  I  think  they  were  laughing;  unless  it 
was  that  they  were  crying,  or  that  it  was  something  I  did 
not  understand;  for  one  heard  badly,  and  their  voices 
were  low.  There  seemed  to  be  a  great  many  of  them 
moving  about  in  the  vault.  They  were  speaking  of  the 
child  that  the  Queen  wished  to  see.  They  will  probably 
come  here  this  evening. 

YGRAINE.     What?   This  evening? 

BELLANGERE.     Yes,  yes;  I  think  so,  yes. 

YGRAINE.     Did  they  not  mention  any  name? 

BELLANGERE.     They  spoke  of  a  child  —  a  little,  little  child. 

YGRAINE.     There  is  no  other  child  here. 

BELLANGERE.  Just  then  they  raised  their  voices  a  little,  for 
one  of  them  had  doubted  whether  the  day  was  come. 

YGRAINE.  I  know  what  that  means,  and  it  will  not  be  the 
first  time  that  they  have  left  the  tower.  I  knew  only  too 
well  why  she  made  him  come,  but  I  could  not  think  she 
would  show  such  haste  as  this!  We  shall  see;  there  are 
three  of  us,  and  we  have  time. 

BELLANGERE.     What  do  you  mean  to  do? 

YGRAINE.  I  do  not  know  yet  what  I  shall  do,  but  I  shall 
surprise  her.  Do  you  know  what  that  means,  you  who 
can  only  tremble?  I  will  tell  you. 

BELLANGERE.       What? 

YGRAINE.     She  shall  not  take  him  without  a  struggle. 

BELLANGERE.     We  are  alone,  sister  Ygraine. 

YGRAINE.  Ah!  it  is  true  we  are  alone!  There  is  only  one 
thing  to  be  done,  and  it  never  fails  us !  Let  us  wait  on  our 
knees  as  we  did  before.  Perhaps  she  will  have  pity! 
She  allows  herself  to  be  moved  by  tears.  We  must  grant 
her  everything  she  asks;  she  will  smile,  perhaps;  and  it  is 
her  habit  to  spare  all  who  kneel.  All  these  years  she  has 


THE  DEATH  OF  TINTAGILES  225 

been  there  in  her  enormous  tower,  devouring  those  we 
love,  and  not  a  single  one  has  dared  strike  her  in  the  face. 
She  lies  on  our  soul  like  the  stone  of  a  tomb,  and  no  one 
dares  stretch  out  his  arm.  In  the  times  when  there  were 
men  here,  they  too  were  afraid,  and  fell  upon  their  faces. 
To-day  it  is  the  woman's  turn;  we  shall  see.  It  is  time 
that  some  one  should  dare  to  rise.  No  one  knows  on  what 
her  power  rests,  and  I  will  no  longer  live  in  the  shadow 
of  her  tower.  Go  away,  if  you  two  can  only  tremble  like 
this  —  go  away,  both  of  you,  and  leave  me  still  more  alone. 
I  will  wait  for  her. 

BELLANGERE.  Sister,  I  do  not  know  what  has  to  be  done, 
but  I  will  wait  with  you. 

AGLOVALE.  I,  too,  will  wait,  my  daughter.  My  soul  has 
long  been  ill  at  ease.  You  will  try;  we  have  tried  more 
than  once. 

YGBAINE.     You  have  tried  —  you  also? 

AGLOVALE.  They  have  all  tried.  But  at  the  last  moment 
their  strength  has  failed  them.  You,  too,  you  shall  see. 
If  she  were  to  command  me  to  go  up  to  her  this  very  even 
ing,  I  would  put  my  two  hands  together  and  say  nothing; 
and  my  weary  feet  would  climb  the  staircase,  without 
lingering  and  without  hastening,  though  I  know  full  well 
that  none  come  down  again  with  eyes  unclosed.  There 
is  no  courage  left  in  me  against  her;  our  hands  are  helpless, 
and  can  touch  no  one.  Other  hands  than  these  are  wanted, 
and  all  is  useless.  But  you  are  hopeful,  and  I  will  assist 
you.  Close  the  doors,  my  child.  Awaken  Tintagiles; 
bare  your  little  arms  and  enfold  him  within  them,  and 
take  him  on  your  knees  —  we  have  no  other  defense. 

ACT  III 

SCENE.     The  same  room.     Ygraine  and  Aglovale. 

YGRAINE.  I  have  been  to  look  at  the  doors.  There  are 
three  of  them.  We  will  watch  the  large  one.  The  two 
others  are  low  and  heavy.  They  are  never  opened.  The 


K 


226  THE  DEATH  OF  TINTAGILES 

keys  were  lost  long  ago,  and  the  iron  bars  are  sunk  into  the 
walls.  Help  me  close  this  door;  it  is  heavier  than  the  gate 
of  a  city.  It  is  massive;  the  lightning  itself  could  not 
pierce  through  it.  Are  you  prepared  for  all  that  may 
happen? 

AGLOVALE  (seating  himself  on  the  threshold).  I  will  go  seat 
myself  on  the  steps;  my  sword  across  my  knees.  I  do 
not  think  this  is  the  first  time  I  have  waited  and  watched 
here,  my  child;  and  there  are  moments  when  one  does 
not  understand  all  that  one  remembers.  I  have  done  all 
this  before,  I  do  not  know  when;  but  I  have  never  dared 
draw  my  sword.  Now,  it  lies  there  before  me,  though  my 
arms  no  longer  have  strength;  but  I  intend  to  try.  It  is 
perhaps  time  that  men  should  defend  themselves,  even 
though  they  do  not  understand. 

[Bellangere,  carrying  Tintagiles  in  her  arms,  comes  out  of 
the  adjoining  room. 

BELLANGERE.     He  was  awake. 

YGRAINE.     He  is  pale;  what  ails  him? 

BELLANGERE.  I  do  not  know;  he  was  very  silent.  He  was 
crying. 

YGRAINE.     Tintagiles. 

BELLANGERE.     He  is  looking  away  from  you. 

YGRAINE.  He  does  not  seem  to  know  me.  Tintagiles, 
where  are  you?  It  is  your  sister  who  speaks  to  you. 
What  are  you  looking  at  so  fixedly?  Turn  around;  come, 
I  will  play  with  you. 

TINTAGILES.      No,  no. 

YGRAINE.     You  do  not  want  to  play? 
TINTAGILES.     I  cannot  stand,  sister  Ygraine. 
YGRAINE.     You  cannot  stand?     Come,  come,  what  is  the 
matter  with  you?     Are  you  suffering  any  pain? 

TINTAGILES.      Yes. 

YGRAINE.     Tell  me  where  it  is,  Tintagiles,  and  I  will  cure 

you. 

TINTAGILES.     I  cannot  tell  you,  sister  Ygraine  —  everywhere. 
YGRAINE.     Come  to  me,  Tintagiles.     You  know  that  my 


THE  DEATH  OF  TINTAGILES  227 

arms  are  softer,  and  I  will  put  them  around  you,  and  you 
will  feel  better  at  once.  Give  him  to  me,  Bellangere. 
He  shall  sit  on  my  knee,  and  the  pain  will  go.  There,  you 
see?  Your  big  sisters  are  here.  They  are  close  to  you, 
we  will  defend  you,  and  no  evil  can  come  near. 

TINTAGILES.  It  has  come,  sister  Ygraine.  Why  is  there  no 
light,  sister  Ygraine? 

YGRAINE.  There  is  a  light,  my  child.  Do  you  not  see  the 
lamp  that  hangs  from  the  rafters? 

TINTAGILES.     Yes,  yes;  it  is  not  large.     Are  there  no  others? 

YGRAINE.  Why  should  there  be  others?  We  can  see  what 
we  have  to  see. 

TINTAGILES.      Ah! 

YGRAINE.     Oh!  your  eyes  are  deep. 

TINTAGILES.     So  are  yours,  sister  Ygraine. 

YGRAINE.  I  did  not  notice  it  this  morning.  I  have  just 
seen  in  your  eyes.  We  do  not  quite  know  what  the  soul 
thinks  it  sees. 

TINTAGILES.  I  have  not  seen  the  soul,  sister  Ygraine.  But 
why  is  Aglovale  on  the  threshold? 

YGRAINE.  He  is  resting  a  little.  He  wanted  to  kiss  you 
before  going  to  bed;  he  was  waiting  for  you  to  wake. 

TINTAGILES.     What  has  he  on  his  knees? 

YGRAINE.     On  his  knees?     I  see  nothing  on  his  knees. 

TINTAGILES.     Yes,  yes;  there  is  something. 

AGLOVALE.  It  is  nothing,  my  child.  I  was  looking  at  my 
old  sword;  and  I  scarcely  recognize  it.  It  has  served  me 
many  years,  but  for  a  long  time  past  I  have  lost  confidence 
in  it,  and  I  think  it  is  going  to  break.  Here,  just  by  the 
hilt,  there  is  a  little  stain.  I  had  noticed  that  the  steel 
was  growing  paler,  and  I  asked  myself :  —  I  do  not  re 
member  what  I  asked  myself.  My  soul  is  very  heavy 
to-day.  What  is  one  to  do?  Men  must  needs  live  and 
await  the  unforeseen.  And  after  that  they  must  still  act  as 
if  they  hoped.  There  are  sad  evenings  when  our  useless 
lives  taste  bitter  in  our  mouths,  and  we  would  like  to  close 
our  eyes.  It  is  late,  and  I  am  tired. 


228  THE  DEATH  OF  TINTAGILES 

TINTAGILES.     He  has  wounds,  sister  Ygraine. 

YGRAINE.     Where? 

TINTAGILES.     On  his  forehead  and  on  his  hands. 

AGLOVALE.     Those  are  very  old  wounds,  from  which  I  suffer 

no  longer,  my  child.     The  light  must  be  falling  on  them 

this  evening.     You  had  not  noticed  them  before? 
TINTAGILES.     He  looks  sad,  sister  Ygraine. 
YGRAINE.     No,  no;  he  is  not  sad,  but  very  weary. 
TINTAGILES.     You  too  are  sad,  sister  Ygraine. 
YGRAINE.     Why  no,  why  no;  look  at  me,  I  am  smiling. 
TINTAGILES.     And  my  other  sister  too. 
YGRAINE.     Oh,  no,  she  too,  is  smiling. 
TINTAGILES.     No,  that  is  not  a  smile;  I  know. 
YGRAINE.     Come,  kiss  me,  and  think  of  something  else. 

[She  kisses  him. 
TINTAGILES.     Of  what  shall  I  think,  sister  Ygraine?  —  Why 

do  you  hurt  me  when  you  kiss  me? 
YGRAINE.     Did  I  hurt  you? 
TINTAGILES.     Yes.     I  do  not  know  why  I  hear  your  heart 

beat,  sister  Ygraine. 
YGRAINE.     Did  you  hear  it  beat? 

TINTAGILES.     Oh !    Oh !  it  beats  as  though  it  wanted  to  — 
YGRAINE    What? 

TINTAGILES.     I  do  not  know,  sister  Ygraine. 
YGRAINE.     It  is  wrong  to  be  frightened  without  reason,  and 

to  speak  in  riddles.     Oh !  your  eyes  are  full  of  tears.     Why 

are   you   unhappy?     I   hear   your   heart    beating,    now; 

people  always  hear  them  when  they  hold  one  another  so 

close.     It  is  then  that  the  heart  speaks  and  says  things 

that  the  tongue  does  not  know. 
TINTAGILES.     I  heard  nothing  before. 
YGRAINE.     That  was  because —    Oh!  But  your  heart !   What 

is  the  matter?     It  is  bursting! 

TINTAGILES  (crying) .     Sister  Ygraine !    Sister  Ygraine ! 
YGRAINE.     What  is  it? 

TINTAGILES.     I  have  heard.     They  —  they  are  coming ! 
YGRAINE.     Who?     Who  are  coming?     What  has  happened? 


THE  DEATH  OF  TINTAGILES 


TINTAGILES.     The  door  !  the  door  !    They  are  there  ! 
[He  falls  backwards  on  to  Ygraine's  knees. 

YGRAINE.     What  is  it?     He  has  —  he  has  fainted. 

BELLANGERE.     Take  care  —  take  care.     He  will  fall. 

AGLOVALE  (rising  brusquely,  his  sword  in  his  hand).  I,  too, 
can  hear  —  there  are  steps  in  the  corridor. 

YGRAINE.     Oh  ! 

[A  moment's  silence;  they  all  listen. 

AGLOVALE.     Yes,  I  hear.     There  is  a  crowd  of  them. 

YGRAINE.     A  crowd  —  a  crowd  —  now? 

AGLOVALE.  I  do  not  know;  one  hears  and  one  does  not  hear. 
They  do  not  move  like  other  creatures,  but  they  come. 
They  are  touching  the  door. 

YGRAINE  (clasping  Tintagiles  in  her  arms).  Tintagiles! 
Tintagiles! 

BELLANGERE  (embracing  him).  Let  [me  [too!  let  me!  — 
Tintagiles  ! 

AGLOVALE.     They  are  shaking  the  door  —  listen  —  do  not 
breathe.     They  are  whispering. 
[A  key  is  heard  turning  harshly  in  the  lock. 

YGRAINE.     They  have  the  key! 

AGLOVALE.  Yes,  yes;  I  was  sure  of  it.  Wait.  (He  plants 
himself,  with  sword  outstretched,  on  the  last  step  —  to  the  two 
sisters)  Come  !  come  both  ! 

[For  a  moment  there  is  silence.  The  door  opens  slowly. 
Aglovale  thrusts  his  sword  wildly  through  the  opening,  driving 
the  point  between  the  beams.  The  sword  breaks  with  a  loud 
report  under  the  silent  pressure  of  the  timber,  and  the  pieces 
of  steel  roll  down  the  steps  with  a  resounding  clang.  Ygraine 
leaps  up,  carrying  in  her  arms  Tintagiles,  who  has  fainted; 
and  she,  Bellangere  and  Aglovale,  putting  forth  all  their 
strength,  try,  but  in  vain,  to  close  the  door,  which  slowly  opens 
wider  and  wider,  although  no  one  can  be  seen  or  heard.  Only 
a  cold  and  calm  light  penetrates  into  the  room.  At  this 
moment  Tintagiles,  suddenly  stretching  out  his  limbs,  regains 
consciousness,  sends  forth  a  long  cry  of  deliverance,  and  em 
braces  his  sister  —  and  at  this  very  instant  the  door,  which 


230  THE  DEATH  OF  TINTAGILES 

resists  no  longer,  falls  to  brusquely  under  their  pressure,  which 

they  have  not  had  time  to  stop. 
YGRAINE.     Tintagiles ! 

[They  look  with  amazement  at  each  other. 
AGLOVALE  (waiting  at  the  door).     I  hear  nothing  now. 
YGRAINE  (wild  with  joy).     Tintagiles!     Tintagiles!     Look! 

Look!    He  is  saved!    Look  at  his  eyes;   you  can  see  the 

blue.     He  is  going  to  speak.     They  saw  we  were  watching. 

They  did  not  dare.     Kiss  us!     Kiss  us,  I  say!    Kiss  us! 

All !    all !    Down  to  the  depths  of  our  soul ! 

[All  four,  their  eyes  full  of  tears,  fall  into  each  other's  arms. 

ACT  IV 

SCENE.    A  corridor  in  front  of  the  room  in  which  last  act 
took  place. 

Three  Servants  of  the  Queen  enter.     They  are  all  veiled,  and 
their  long  black  robes  flow  down  to  the  ground. 
FIRST  SERVANT  (listening  at  the  door).  They  are  not  watching. 
SECOND  SERVANT.     We  need  not  have  waited. 
THIRD  SERVANT.     She  prefers  that  it  should  be  done  in  silence. 
FIRST  SERVANT.     I  knew  that  they  must  fall  asleep. 
SECOND  SERVANT.     Quick !  open  the  door. 

THIRD  SERVANT.       It  IS  time. 

FIRST  SERVANT.  Wait  there ;  I  will  enter  alone.  There  is 
no  need  for  three  of  us. 

SECOND  SERVANT.     You  are  right;  he  is  very  small. 

THIRD  SERVANT.     You  must  be  careful  with  the  elder  sister. 

SECOND  SERVANT.  Remember,  the  Queen  does  not  want 
them  to  know. 

FIRST  SERVANT.  Have  no  fear;  people  seldom  hear  my 
coming. 

SECOND  SERVANT.  Go  in  then;  it  is  time.  (The  First  Ser 
vant  opens  the  door  cautiously  and  goes  into  the  room)  It  is 
close  on  midnight. 

THIRD  SERVANT.       Ah! 

[A  moment's  silence.    The  First  Servant  comes  out  of  the  room. 


THE  DEATH  OF  TINTAGILES  231 

SECOND  SERVANT.     Where  is  he? 

FIRST  SERVANT.     He  is  asleep  between  his  sisters.     His  arms 

are  around  their  necks;    and  their  arms  enfold  him.     I 

cannot  do  it  alone. 
SECOND  SERVANT.     I  will  help  you. 
THIRD  SERVANT.     Yes;    do  you  go  together.     I  will  keep 

watch  here. 
FIRST  SERVANT.     Be  careful;    they  seem  to  know.     They 

were  all  three  struggling  with  a  bad  dream. 

[The  two  Servants  go  into  the  room. 
THIRD  SERVANT.     People  always  know;    but  they  do  not 

understand. 

[A  moment's  silence.     The  First  and  Second  Servants  come 

out  of  the  room  again. 

THIRD  SERVANT.       Well? 

SECOND  SERVANT.     You  must  come  too;  we  cannot  separate 

them. 
FIRST  SERVANT.     No  sooner  do  we  unclasp  their  arms  than 

they  fall  back  around  the  child. 
SECOND  SERVANT.     And  the  child  nestles  closer  and  closer  to 

them. 
FIRST  SERVANT.     He  is  lying  with  his  forehead  on  the  elder 

sister's  heart. 

SECOND  SERVANT.     And  his  head  rises  and  falls  on  her  bosom. 
FIRST  SERVANT.     We  shall  not  be  able  to  open  his  hands. 
SECOND  SERVANT.     They  are  plunged  deep  down  into  his 

sister's  hair. 
FIRST  SERVANT.     He  holds  one  golden  curl  between  his  little 

teeth. 
SECOND  SERVANT.     We  shall  have  to  cut  the  elder  sister's 

hair. 

FIRST  SERVANT.     And  the  other  sister's,  too,  you  will  see. 
SECOND  SERVANT.     Have  you  your  scissors? 

THIRD  SERVANT.       YeS. 

FIRST  SERVANT.     Come  quickly;  they  have  begun  to  move. 
SECOND  SERVANT.     Their  hearts  and  their  eyelids  are  throb 
bing  together. 


232  THE  DEATH  OF  TINTAGILES 

FIRST  SERVANT.     Yes;   I  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  elder  girl's 

blue  eyes. 

SECOND  SERVANT.     She  looked  at  us  but  did  not  see  us. 
FIRST  SERVANT.     If  one  touches  one  of  them,  the  other  two 

tremble. 
SECOND  SERVANT      They  are  trying  hard,  but  they  cannot 

stir. 
FIRST  SERVANT.     The  elder  sister  wishes  to  scream,  but  she 

cannot. 

SECOND  SERVANT.     Come  quickly;  they  seem  to  know. 
THIRD  SERVANT.     Where  is  the  old  man? 
FIRST  SERVANT.     He  is  asleep  —  away  from  the  others. 
SECOND  SERVANT.     He  sleeps,  his  forehead  resting  on  the 

hilt  of  his  sword. 
FIRST  SERVANT.     He  knows  of  nothing;    and  he  has  no 

dreams. 

THIRD  SERVANT.     Come,  come,  we  must  hasten. 
FIRST  SERVANT.     You  will  find  it  difficult  to  separate  their 

limbs. 
SECOND  SERVANT.     They   are   clutching   at   each   other   as 

though  they  were  drowning. 

THIRD  SERVANT.       Come,  COme. 

[They  go  in.  The  silence  is  broken  only  by  sighs  and  low 
murmurs  of  suffering,  held  in  thrall  by  sleep.  Then  the 
three  Servants  emerge  very  hurriedly  from  the  gloomy  room. 
One  of  them  carries  Tintagiles,  who  is  fast  asleep,  in  her 
arms.  From  his  little  hands,  twitching  in  sleep,  and  his 
mouth,  drawn  in  agony,  a  glittering  stream  of  golden  tresses, 
ravished  from  the  heads  of  his  sisters,  flows  down  to  the  ground. 
The  Servants  hurry  on.  There  is  perfect  silence;  but  no 
sooner  have  they  reached  the  end  of  the  corridor  than  Tinta 
giles  awakes  and  sends  forth  a  cry  of  supreme  distress. 

TINTAGILES  (from  the  end  of  the  corridor).     Aah! 

[There  is  again  silence.  Then  from  the  adjoining  room  the 
two  sisters  are  heard  moving  about  restlessly. 

YGRAINE  (in  the  room).     Tintagiles!     Where  is  he? 

BELLANGERE.     He  is  not  here. 


THE  DEATH  OF  TINTAGILES  233 

YGRAINE   (with  growing  anguish).     Tintagiles!     A  lamp,  a 
lamp !     Light  it ! 

BELLANGERE.       Yes yes. 

[  Ygraine  is  seen  coming  out  of  the  room  with  a  lighted  lamp  in 

her  hand. 
YGRAINE.     The  door  is  wide  open ! 

[The  voice  of  Tintagiles,  almost  inaudible,  in  the  distance. 
TINTAGILES.     Sister  Ygraine ! 
YGRAINE.     He  calls !    He  calls !    Tintagiles !    Tintagiles ! 

[She  rushes  into  the  corridor.     Bellangere  tries  to  follow,  but 

falls  fainting  on  the  threshold. 

ACT  V 

SCENE.     Before  a  great  iron  door  in  a  gloomy  vault.    Enter 
Ygraine,  haggard  and  dishevelled,  with  a  lamp  in  her  hand. 

YGRAINE  (turning  wildly  to  and  fro).  They  have  not  followed 
me  here !  Bellangere !  Bellangere !  Aglovale !  Where  are 
they?  They  said  they  loved  him  and  they  leave  me  alone! 
Tintagiles!  Tintagiles!  Oh,  I  remember;  I  have  climbed 
steps  without  number,  between  great  pitiless  walls,  and 
my  heart  bids  me  live  no  longer.  These  vaults  seem  to 
move.  (She  supports  herself  against  the  pillars)  I  am 
falling.  Oh!  Oh!  My  poor  life!  I  can  feel  it  —  ft  is 
trembling  on  my  lips  —  it  wants  to  depart.  I  know  not 
what  I  have  done;  I  have  seen  nothing.  I  have  heard 
nothing.  Oh,  this  silence!  All  along  the  steps  and  all 
along  the  walls  I  found  these  golden  curls,  and  I  followed 
them.  I  picked  them  up.  Oh!  oh!  They  are  very 
pretty!  Little  childie  —  little  childie  —  what  was  I 
saying?  I  remember;  I  do  not  believe  in  it.  When  one 
sleeps  —  all  that  has  no  importance  and  is  not  possible. 
*Of  what  am  I  thinking?  I  do  not  know.  One  awakes, 
and  then  —  After  all  —  come,  after  all  —  I  must  think 
this  out.  Some  say  one  thing,  some  say  the  other;  but 
the  way  of  the  soul  is  quite  different.  When  the  chain  is 
removed,  there  is  much  more  than  one  knows.  I  came 


234  THE  DEATH  OF  TINTAGILES 

here  with  my  little  lamp.  It  did  not  go  out,  in  spite  of 
the  wind  on  the  staircase.  And  then,  what  is  one  to 
think?  There  are  so  many  things  which  are  vague. 
There  must  be  people  who  know  them ;  but  why  do  they 
not  speak?  (She  looks  around  her)  I  have  never  seen 
all  this  before.  It  is  difficult  to  get  so  far  —  and  it  is  all 
forbidden.  How  cold  it  is;  and  so  dark  one  is  afraid  to 
breathe.  They  say  there  is  poison  in  these  gloomy 
shadows.  That  door  looks  very  terrible.  (She  goes  up 
to  the  door  and  touches  it)  Oh!  how  cold  it  is.  It  is  of 
iron  —  solid  iron  —  and  there  is  no  lock.  How  can  they 
open  it?  I  see  no  hinges;  I  suppose  it  is  sunk  into  the 
wall.  This  is  as  far  as  one  can  go.  There  are  no 
more  steps.  (Suddenly  sending  forth  a  terrible  shriek) 
Ah!  more  golden  hair  between  the  panels!  Tintagiles! 
Tintagiles!  I  heard  the  door  close  just  now  —  I  remem 
ber!  I  remember!  It  must  be!  (She  beats  frantically 
against  the  door  with  hands  and  feet)  Oh!  Monster! 
Monster !  It  is  here  that  I  find  you !  Listen !  I  blaspheme ! 
I  blaspheme  and  spit  on  you! 

[Feeble  knocks  are  heard  from  the  other  side  of  the  door; 
then  the  voice  of  Tintagiles  penetrates  very  feebly  through  the 
iron  panels. 

TINTAGILES.     Sister  Ygraine,  sister  Ygraine! 

YGRAINE.     Tintagiles!     What!    What!    Tintagiles,  is  it  you? 

TINTAGILES.     Quick,  open,  open!     She  is  here! 

YGRAINE.  Oh!  Oh!  Who?  Tintagiles,  my  little  Tinta 
giles,  can  you  hear  me?  What  is  it?  What  has  happened? 
Tintagiles!  Have  they  hurt  you?  Where  are  you?  Are 
you  there? 

TINTAGILES.  Sister  Ygraine,  sister  Ygraine !  Open  for  me  — 
or  I  shall  die. 

YGRAINE.  I  will  try  —  wait,  wait.  I  will  open  it,  I  will 
open  it. 

TINTAGILES.  But  you  do  not  understand!  Sister  Ygraine! 
There  is  no  time  to  lose!  She  tried  to  hold  me  back!  I 
struck  her,  struck  her;  I  ran.  Quick,  quick,  she  is  coming! 


THE  DEATH  OF  TINTAGILES  235 

YGRAINE.     Yes,  yes  —  where  is  she? 

TINTAGILES.     I  can  see  nothing,  but  I  hear  —  oh,  I  am 

afraid,  sister  Ygraine,  I  am  afraid.     Quick,  quick!     Quick, 

open!  for  the  dear  Lord's  sake,  sister  Ygraine! 
YGRAINE  (anxiously  groping  along  the  door).     I  am  sure  to 

find  it.     Wait  a  little  —  a  minute  —  a  second. 
TINTAGILES.     I    cannot,    sister    Ygraine.     I    can    feel    her 

breath  on  me  now. 
YGRAINE.     It  is  nothing,  Tintagiles,  my  little  Tintagiles; 

do  not  be  frightened  —  if  I  could  only  see. 
TINTAGILES.     Oh,  but  you  can  see  —  I  can  see  your  lamp 

from  here.     It  is  quite  light  where  you  are,  sister  Ygraine. 

Here  I  can  see  nothing. 
YGRAINE.     You   see   me,   Tintagiles?     How  can  you   see? 

There  is  not  a  crack  in  the  door. 
TINTAGILES.     Yes,  yes,  there  is;  but  it  is  so  small! 
YGRAINE.     On  which  side?     Is  it  here  —  tell  me,  tell  me  — 

or  is  it  over  there? 

TINTAGILES.     It  is  here.     Listen!    Listen!    I  am  knocking. 
YGRAINE.     Here? 
TINTAGILES.     Higher  up.     But  it  is  so  small;  a  needle  could 

not  go  through ! 

YGRAINE.     Do  not  be  afraid,  I  am  here. 
TINTAGILES.     Oh,  I  know,  sister  Ygraine !     Pull !  pull !    You 

must  pull!     She  is  coming!     If  you  could  only  open  a 

little  —  a  very  little.     I  am  so  small ! 
YGRAINE.     My  nails  are  broken,  Tintagiles.     I  have  pulled, 

I  have  pushed,  I  have  struck  with  all  my  might,  with  all 

my  might !     (She  strikes  again,  and  tries  to  shake  the  massive 

door)     Two  of  my  fingers  are  numbed.     Do  not  cry.     It 

is  of  iron. 
TINTAGILES  (sobbing  in  despair).     You  have  nothing  to  open 

with,  sister  Ygraine?  nothing  at  all,  nothing  at  all?     I 

could  get  through  —  I  am  so  small,  so  very  small  —  you 

know  how  small  I  am. 
YGRAINE.     I  have  only  my  lamp,  Tintagiles.     There!   There! 

(She  aims  repeated  blows  at  the  gate  with  her  earthenware 


236  THE  DEATH  OF  TINTAGILES 

lamp,  which  goes  out  and  breaks,  the  pieces  falling  to  the 
ground)  Oh!  it  has  all  grown  dark!  Tintagiles,  where 
are  you?  Oh!  listen,  listen!  Can  you  not  open  from  the 
inside? 

TINTAGILES.  No,  no;  there  is  nothing.  I  cannot  feel  any 
thing  at  all.  I  cannot  see  the  light  through  the  crack  any 
more. 

YGRAINE.  What  is  the  matter,  Tintagiles?  I  can  scarcely 
hear  you. 

TINTAGILES.  Little  sister,  sister  Ygraine.  It  is  too  late 
now. 

YGRAINE.     What  is  it,  Tintagiles?     Where  are  you  going? 

TINTAGILES.  She  is  here!  Oh,  I  am  so  weak.  Sister 
Ygraine,  sister  Ygraine.  I  feel  her  on  me ! 

YGRAINE.     Whom?  whom? 

TINTAGILES.  I  do  not  know  —  I  cannot  see.  But  it  is  too 
late  now.  She  —  she  is  taking  me  by  the  throat.  Her 
hand  is  at  my  throat.  Oh,  oh,  sister  Ygraine,  come  to  me! 

YGRAINE.     Yes,  yes. 

TINTAGILES.     It  is  so  dark. 

YGRAINE.  Struggle  —  fight  —  tear  her  to  pieces !  Do  not 
be  afraid.  Wait  a  moment!  I  am  here.  Tintagiles! 
answer  me!  Help!  !  !  Where  are  you?  I  will  come  to 
you,  kiss  me,  through  the  door  —  here,  here. 

TINTAGILES  (very  feebly).     Here  —  here  —  sister  Ygraine. 

YGRAINE.  I  am  putting  my  kisses  on  this  spot  here,  do  you 
understand?  Again,  again! 

TINTAGILES   (more  and  more  feebly).     Mine  too  —  here  — 
sister  Ygraine !     Sister  Ygraine !    Oh ! 
[The  fall  of  a  little  body  is  heard  behind  the  iron  door. 

YGRAINE.  Tintagiles!  Tintagiles!  What  have  you  done? 
Give  him  back,  give  him  back!  For  the  love  of  God,  give 
him  back  to  me!  I  can  hear  nothing.  What  are  you 
doing  with  him!  You  will  not  hurt  him?  He  is  only  a 
little  child;  he  cannot  resist.  Look!  look!  I  mean  no 
harm.  I  am  on  my  knees.  Give  him  back  to  us,  I  beg 
of  you.  Not  for  my  sake  only,  you  know  it  well.  I  will 


THE  DEATH  OF  TINTAGILES  237 

do  anything.  I  bear  no  ill-will,  you  see.  I  implore  you 
with  clasped  hands.  I  was  wrong.  I  am  quite  resigned, 
you  see.  I  have  lost  all  I  had.  You  should  punish  me 
some  other  way.  There  are  so  many  things  which  would 
hurt  me  more  —  if  you  want  to  hurt  me.  You  shall  see. 
But  this  poor  child  has  done  no  harm.  What  I  said  was 
not  true  —  but  I  did  not  know.  I  know  that  you  are  very 
good.  Surely  the  time  for  forgiveness  has  come !  He  is  so 
young  and  beautiful,  and  he  is  so  small!  You  must  see 
that  it  cannot  be!  He  puts  his  little  arms  around  your 
neck;  his  little  mouth  on  your  mouth;  and  God  himself 
could  not  say  him  nay.  You  will  open  the  door,  will  you 
not?  I  am  asking  so  little.  I  want  him  for  an  instant, 
just  for  an  instant.  I  cannot  remember.  You  will  under 
stand.  I  did  not  have  time.  He  can  get  through  the  tini 
est  opening.  It  is  not  difficult.  (A  long  inexorable  silence) 
Monster!  Monster!  Curse  you!  Curse  you!  I  spit  on 
you! 

[She  sinks  down  and  continues  to  sob  softly,  her  arms  out 
spread  against  the  gate,  in  the  gloom. 


THE  CONFLICT 

CLARICE  VALLETTE  McCAULEY 

CLARICE  VALLETTE  McCAULEY  was  bora  in  Philadelphia, 
Pa.,  and  is  a  graduate  of  the  public  schools  of  that  city. 
After  teaching  for  a  few  years  in  that  city  she  went  on  the 
stage,  getting  her  early  training  as  a  member  of  the  Girard 
Avenue  Stock  Company  and  for  three  years  played  con 
tinuously  in  resident  and  travelling  stock  companies. 

In  1912  she  won  a  five  hundred  dollar  prize  for  a  short 
story  called  The  Prairie  and  her  first  book,  The  Garden  of 
Dreams  was  brought  out  by  A.  C.  McClurg  &  Co.  of  Chicago. 
Lately  the  stage,  particularly  in  its  Little  Theatre  and  com 
munity  activities,  has  claimed  a  great  deal  of  her  attention. 
She  has  directed  pageants  and  festivals  in  Columbus  and  Des 
Moines,  writing  some  of  these  herself,  and  is  at  present  in 
charge  of  a  class  in  Play  Production  in  the  extension  work  of 
Columbia  University. 

Mrs.  McCauley  has  been  director  of  The  Morningside 
Players  for  the  last  two  seasons.  This  is  a  group  of  Columbia 
University  students  interested  in  putting  on  original  plays 
written  by  the  students  in  the  classes  in  play  writing.  She 
has  written  and  produced  a  number  of  one-act  plays,  among 
them  The  Threshold,  The  Conflict,  The  Queen's  Hour  and  A 
Return. 


THE  CONFLICT 

A  PLAY  IN  ONE  ACT 


BY  CLARICE  VALLETTE  McCAULEY 


"The  Conflict"  was  originally  presented  by  the  Vagabond 
Players,  Baltimore,  December  6th,  1920. 


Original  Cast 
IE       .... 
BESS 


EMELIE Mrs.  J.  A.  Dushane  Penniman 

fRoseKohler 

1  Harriet  Gibbs 

BOB John  Stuart 

MOTHER  Mrs.  S.  Johnson  Poe 


Presented  by  May  Standish  Rose. 


COPTBIGHT,  1920,  1921,  BT  CLABICE  VALLETTA  McCAtTLITT. 

All  rights  reserved. 

No  p«rformance  of  this  play,  either  amateur  or  professional,  may  be  given  without 
ipecial  arrangement  with  Miss  Clarice  Vallette  McCauley,  2109  H.  St.  N.  W.,  Washing 
ton,  D.  C. 

Copies  of  the  acting  edition  may  be  had  from  Norman,  Remington  Company,  Balti 
more,  Md. 


THE  CONFLICT 

SCENE.     The  kitchen  of  an  old-fashioned  farmhouse. 

TIME.     Late  afternoon  of  an  April  day. 

In  the  back  wall,  well  to  the  right,  is  a  door  leading  into  the 
garden.  Left  of  center  a  broad  window  curtained  in  crisp 
white  muslin.  In  the  right  wall  —  down  stage  —  a  door  lead 
ing  to  the  living  rooms  at  the  front  of  the  house.  Just  opposite  — 
in  the  left  wall  —  a  door  which  when  opened  reveals  a  narrow 
flight  of  stairs  which  turns  and  disappears  —  evidently  the  back 
stairway  leading  to  the  rear  bedrooms. 

In  the  upper  left-hand  corner  a  built-in  kitchen  range  with 
copper  preserving  kettle  above  it.  In  the  upper  right  a  small 
sink  with  pump  attachment  —  a  little  oak-framed  mirror  over 
it  —  a  roller  towel  on  the  wall  beside  it.  Farther  down,  on  the 
right,  a  cupboard  filled  with  old-fashioned  china  —  a  nest  of 
yellow  bowls  —  a  pan  of  apples.  A  drop-leaf  table  down  right 
of  center  is  covered  with  a  pretty  blue  and  white  cloth  —  a  cane- 
seated  rocker  on  the  right  of  it  —  on  the  left  a  straight  chair  to 
match.  Between  outer  door  and  window  is  a  little  table  with 
a  workbasket  on  it  —  a  clock  hangs  on  the  wall  above  it.  Near 
the  window  a  chair  —  on  the  sill  potted  geraniums  in  bloom. 
The  window  is  open  and  through  it  you  get  a  glimpse  of  a  white 
lilac  bush  in  flower.  The  square  of  sunshine  on  the  floor  is 
gradually  cut  off  diagonally  —  as  though  by  a  slanting  roof  — 
till  near  the  end  it  disappears  entirely.1 

1  The  room  should  suggest  by  every  detail  of  its  cheery,  wholesome  order 
liness  a  certain  sympathetic  plea  for  the  mother.  Otherwise,  if  the  home 
were  unattractive,  there  would  at  once  be  furnished  a  reason  for  the 
children's  wish  to  leave  it;  but  there  is  no  fundamental  reason  —  other  than 
the  primordial  urge  to  try  our  wings,  which  gets  us  all,  sometime;  and 
which  no  mother  can  successfully  deny  without  forever  crippling  her  child. 
In  contrast  to  the  crisp,  clear-cut  details  of  the  kitchen  is  the  vague,  hazy 
sunshininess  of  the  garden  outside  the  door. 


244  THE  CONFLICT 


As  the  curtain  rises  Emelie  is  discovered  seated  at  left  of  the 
center  table,  writing  a  letter.  (On  this  table  stands  a  small 
black  traveling  bag,  and  scattered  around  it  gloves,  purse,  a  few 
letters.) 

Emelie  is  a  tall  girl  of  about  twenty-three,  not  exactly  beautiful, 
but  with  a  certain  nobility  of  purpose  in  her  face  that  lends  her 
distinction,  and  the  lines  of  her  slender  figure  in  its  solemn  black 
are  full  of  allurement.  Her  face  quivers  as  she  writes,  and  she 
stops  a  moment  to  wipe  her  eyes.  There  is  the  cheery,  impudent 
call  of  a  robin  in  the  garden,  and  Bess  enters  from  the  living 
room. 

Bess  is  a  girl  of  seventeen.  She  is  not  in  mourning  like  her 
sister,  but  her  white  skirt  and  middy  blouse  are  set  off  by  a  black 
tie,  and  a  black  ribbon  on  her  hair.  She  has  emptied  a  vase  of 
withered  flowers  on  to  a  newspaper,  and  carries  them  carefully 
before  her. 
EMELIE  (looking  up  and  referring  to  the  flowers).  Gone  — 

are  they? 
BESS.     Yes  —  lilacs  droop  so  soon.     I  cut  these  for  you  to 

take  with  you  on  the  train. 
EMELIE  (absentmindedJy,   looking  at  her  letter).     I'm  sorry, 

Puss- 
BESS.     I'm  not;   I'm,  oh,  so  glad  —  you  stayed!  ;  (She  has 

stopped  back  Oj  tltc  chair  to  give  her  sister  a  hug))  *You  can't 

think  how  much  even  two  days  more  means  to  us.     You're 

surely  going  this  time? 
EMELIE.     Yes. 
BESS  (going  up  towards  window).     Then  I'd  better  cut  you 

some  more.     The  white  ones  by  the  window  —  they're  in 

bloom  now  —  and  they  last  longer,  I  think.     Do  you  like 

them  just  as  well? 

EMELIE  (writing).     Just  as  well,  dear. 
BESS  (raising  the  lid  of  the  range  and  emptying  newspaper). 

My!    It's  good  I  looked  at  this  fire.     It's  almost  gone. 

(Reaches  into  wood-box  and  puts  wood  on  fire  as  she  speaks) 

And  Mother  told  Bob  to  tend  to  it,  but  of  course  he's  out  — 

as  usual  —  dear  knows  where.     (There's  the  s-Mind  of  a 


THE  CONFLICT  245 


rapidly  passing  train,  and  the  sky  above  the  window  is  dark 
ened  —  as  is  the  square  of  sunlight  on  the  floor.  Bess  looks 
at  the  dock)  There  goes  the  express  now.  I  suppose 
you'll  take  the  5:05? 

EMELIE.       Yes. 

BESS.     Well  —    You'll  want  supper  before  you  go. 

EMELIE.  No,  Bess,  don't  bother.  I'm  not  hungry  —  I 
can  get  tea  on  the  train. 

BESS  (coming  down).  Sister,  you  haven't  changed  your 
mind? 

EMELIE.     No. 

BESS.     You're  really  going  to  New  York? 

EMELIE.     Yes. 

BESS.  Does  Mother  know?  (Emelie  nods)  But  she  doesn't 
believe  you'll  do  it? 

EMELIE.     I  suppose  not. 

BESS.  And  when  Mother  sets  her  mind  against  anything 
we  want  to  do  —  you  know  how  it  is  —  even  Father 
always  gave  in  to  her  —  in  the  end.  Don't  you  feel 
afraid  —  she'll  persuade  you  not  to  go? 

EMELIE.  I  hate  to  vex  her,  dear,  but  —  well  —  neither  of 
you  quite  understand.  My  whole  future,  my  very  life 
depends  on  this.  (Under  her  breath)  More  than  my  life, 
perhaps. 

BESS  (who  has  caught  the  last  phrase,  looks  at  her  searchingly) 
Sister —  (Coming  down  back  of  the  table)  you  know  that 
talk  —  we  —  had  —  last  night?     After  we  had  gone  to 
bed? 

EMELIE.     Yes  —  I  kept  you  awake  till  all  hours. 

BESS.  It  was  I  kept  you.  Well  —  you  know  what  you 
said  —  about  how,  sometimes,  when  you  wanted  some 
thing  that  wasn't  good  for  you  and  didn't  feel  very  strong 
—  how  it  was  awfully  foolish  to  hang  around  in  sight  of  it, 
and  how  it  was  much,  much  wiser  to  run  away  from 
temptation? 

EMELIE.     Yes. 


246  THE  CONFLICT 


BESS  (coming  around  and  kneeling  softly  beside  her) .     Are  you 

—  running  away  —  from  temptation? 

EMELIE.     Little  sister,  dear  little  sister,  what  are  you  saying? 
BESS  (with  the  frank  persistence  of  a  child).     Are  you? 
EMELIE  (frames  the  earnest  face  in  her  hands ,  and  as  she  stoops 

to  kiss  her,  whispers).     Sh  —  yes. 
BESS.     Oh,  I  was  sure  of  it!     Then  that's  why  you're  not 

going  back  to  Boston.     I  knew  it  —  I  knew  it —    It's 

those  letters ! 

[Reaches  towards  them. 
EMELIE   (checking  her).     Darling!    You  don't  know  what 

you're  talking  about.     Those  letters  are  from  a  very,  very 

dear  friend  — 

BESS  (convictingly) .     In  Boston! 
EMELIE.     Well,  yes  — 

BESS.     And  they  always  make  you  cry  —  such  funny  tears! 
EMELIE.     They  spoke  of  Father  —  of  our  loss,  dear.     If  they 

made  me  cry  it  was  because  they  were  so  full  of  tenderness 

—  of  sympathy  — 

BESS.     You  think  so  much  of  him,  sister? 
EMELIE.     So  much,  dear.     He's  the  best,  the  truest  friend 

I  ever  had. 

BESS  (puzzled).     Then  why? 
EMELIE.     Don't,  darling.     I've  no  right  —  I  don't  dare  — 

Oh,  I  can't  explain  — 
BESS  (jealously).     Well  —  just  the  same  —  I'm  glad  you're 

going  to  New  York  instead.     I  wish  I  were.     Is  that  really 

an  honest-to-goodness  contract  —  that  long  one? 

[Indicating  envelope. 
EMELIE  (laughing  and  abandoning  hope  of  writing  for  the  time). 

Not  exactly.     It's  an  offer,  though  —  from  one  of  the 

biggest   magazines   in   New   York  —  suggesting   subjects 

for  four  of  my  kiddie  pictures.     If  they  like  them  —  and 

they  shall  like  them  —  they'll  produce  them  in  colors. 

And  then  — it's  up  to  the  public.     If  the  public  likes 

them  —  if  it  laughs  —  and  applauds  —  and  clamors  for 

more  —  why,  then  I  can  ask,  oh,  just  anything  I  want  for 


THE   CONFLICT  247 


my  work  —  in  reason,  of  course  —  and  they'll  give  it  to 
me.  That's  the  way  of  the  world. 

BESS.  Isn't  it  splendid?  And  that's  when  you'll  send  for 
me? 

EMELIE.     Yes,  dear  —  if  Mother  will  let  you  — 

BESS  (despairingly) .     Oh,  Mother  — 

EMELIE.  Don't  cross  bridges,  Honey.  You  know  I  must 
first  be  very  sure  that  I  can  take  care  of  you  —  before  I 
talk  to  Mother. 

BESS.     You  don't  think  I'll  be  too  old,  by  then? 

EMELIE.  For  music?  You  goosie,  of  course  not!  If  you 
don't  strain  those  sweet  little  vocal  cords  of  yours,  you'll 
be  just  right  to  begin.  Pussy,  run  along  now  and  cut  the 
lilacs,  won't  you?  —  while  I  finish  my  letter.  And  send 
Bobs  if  you  see  him  about.  I  want  him  to  mail  this  for  me. 

BESS  (going).  I  shouldn't  wonder  if  that's  where  he's  gone  — 
to  the  postoffice.  Shall  I  raise  the  shade? 

EMELIE.  Yes,  dear;  and  leave  the  door  open  —  the  air's  so 
good  to-day. 

BESS  (taking  a  large  scissors  from  a  hook  near  the  door,  wist 
fully).     I  wish  I  was  going  to  New  York. 
[Goes  out,  leaving  door  open. 

Through  the  open  door  the  sun  falls  in  a  tessellated  square  — 
as  though  through  a  trellis  —  across  the  threshold.  Emelie 
resumes  her  letter-writing.  Bess  is  seen  through  the  window 
at  the  lilac  bush.  There  is  no  sound  for  a  moment  but  the 
twittering  of  birds  and  a  little  dry  sob  from  the  girl  at  the  table. 
Then  a  boy's  clear  whistle  is  heard,  to  which  Bess  replies,  and 
presently  a  boy's  shadow  falls  across  the  threshold,  and  an 
instant  later  he  is  apparently  joined  by  Bess,  who  has  gone 
to  meet  him.  By  this  time  Emelie  has  sealed  her  letter  and  is 
addressing  it. 

EMELIE  (calling).     Bobbie! 

BOB  (from  outside) .  All  right,  Sis !  I'm  coming.  (Entering) 
Bess  said  you  wanted  me. 

[Bobbie  is  a  boy  of  twelve  or  thirteen  —  perfectly  clean  but 
barefooted,  and  in  the  boyish  dishabille  of  a  fellow  that  lives 


248  THE   CONFLICT 


close  to  the  ground.     There  is  no  subtlety  about  Bobbie  — 

he's  just  plain  Boy. 
EMELIE.     Yes,  I  —  goodness,  Bobs !     Bare  feet,  so  early  in 

spring!     Won't  you  catch  cold? 
BOB.     Cold!     Forget    it!     D'ye    think    I'm    a    girl?     Say, 

Em!     You're  sure  some  letter  writer.     Gettin'  'em  and 

sendin'  'em  every  mail  —  must  keep  you  busy.     Don't 

you  want  a  secr'tary? 
EMELIE.     If  I  did,  I  wouldn't  hire  you  —  you  fourth-grader, 

you! 
BOB  (good-naturedly).     Gee,  what  a  wallop!     Don't  I  make 

a  pretty  good  fist  at  corresponding,  though?     Oh,  well! 

Who  wants  to  write,  anyway?     I  got  no  use  for  a  pen; 

but  gimme  a  hammer  an'  saw  an'  some  nails,  an'  I'll  make 

you  own  up  that  I  can't  be  beat  turnin'  out  chick'n-coops. 

Ain't  that  right? 
EMELIE  (laughing).     It  surely  is;    but  good  gracious,  Bobs, 

haven't  you  any  ambition?     Don't  you  ever  think  what 

you  want  to  be  when  you're  a  man? 
BOB.     Sure  I  do!     I'm  goin'  to  stay  right  here  and  have  the 

best    little    chick'n-farm    in    the    county.     Nothin'    but 

Wy'ndottes  an'  Barr'd  Rock's  in  mine !     Well  —  mebbe 

some  Leghorns  f'r  the  eggs. 
EMELIE  (smilingly).     Oh,  well!     In  that  case,  it's  all  right,  I 

suppose.     It's  a  good  thing  one  of  us  wants  to  stick  to  the 

old  place.     If  it   were   only  Jim,   now  —  By  the  way, 

Bobs,  where  is  Jim?     I  haven't  seen  him  all  day. 
BOB.     Off  with  the  gang,  I  guess. 
EMELIE.     Oh,  dear!    That  isn't  right.     He  ought  to  cut  that 

out !  —  that's  how  he  got  into  all  that  trouble. 
BOB.     You  got  it  doped  out  wrong.     Cutting  it  out's  what 

got  him  in  Dutch! 

EMELIE.     Bob!     What  do  you  mean?     I  don't  understand- 
BOB  (loftily).     No,  and  nobody  takes  the  trouble  to  under 
stand  a  fellow  around  here. 
EMELIE.     Robert !    I  don't  think  that's  quite  fair  —  not  to 

me! 


THE   CONFLICT  249 


BOB.  Oh,  well,  it  makes  me  sore.  Jim's  all  right  —  even 
if  he  does  get  pretty  bossy  sometimes.  And  Jim  never 
got  a  square  deal  in  this  mixup  —  never,  from  nobody. 
Seems  to  me  any  one  could  understand  that  you  can't 
go  out  with  fellers  one  day  an'  cut  'em  out  the  next  —  just 
like  that!  (He  makes  a  little  perpendicular  chopping-off 
gesture  with  one  hand)  But  you  know  how  Mother  is! 
When  she  says  cut  it  out  —  it  means  cut  it  out  —  just  like 
that!  Not  to-morror',  or  th'  next  day  —  or  lettin'  'em 
down  easy  —  but  now!  Well,  the  night  she  said  "No 
more  of  it!"  the  gang  was  meetin'  at  Dutch  Heinie's  for 
a  game  o'  cards  — 

EMELIE.     Oh,  Bobbie! 

BOB.  Oh,  well  —  they'd  been  meetin'  all  winter  —  nothin' 
to  it!  But  somebody  must've  got  wind  of  it  —  an'  the 
whole  crowd  gets  pinched !  —  an'  of  course,  just  'cause 
Jim  had  cut  it  out  so  sudden  and  shame-faced  like,  they 
thought  he  was  the  squealer  —  and  mebbe  they  didn't 
have  trouble  planted  for  him  from  that  on.  Say,  he 
didn't  any  more  break  into  Martin's  show-case  than 
I  did. 

EMELIE.  Of  course  he  didn't!  My  own  brother!  Don't  I 
know  that,  Bobs? 

BOB.  Well,  if  you'd  heard  Mother  questioning  him  — 
you'd  'a'  thought  he  was  a  liar  as  well  as  a  thief. 

EMELIE.  Sh  —  Bobbie!  That's  the  unfortunate  part  of  it. 
That's  what  he  got  for  going  with  bad  company. 

BOB.  Well  —  he  sure  had  enough  of  'em.  When  he  got 
out  didn't  he  just  beg  Mother  to  let  him  get  away  from 
here?  He  knows  they're  no  good  —  but  in  a  little  place 
like  this  what's  a  fellow  goin'  to  do?  He  wanted  to  go  to 
Fall  River;  Uncle  Zack'd  'a'  got  him  a  job  there.  But 
Mother  said  he  was  too  young  to  be  breaking  home  ties. 

EMELIE.  Oh,  Bobbie  —  you  don't  understand,  dear. 
Mother  didn't  want  him  away  then,  with  Father  sick. 

BOB  (sullenly).  No,  and  she  won't  let  him  go  now,  with 
Father  — 


250  THE   CONFLICT 


[He  stops,  gulps,  and  turns  away  suddenly,  brushing  his  eyes 

with  his  coat-sleeve. 
EMELIE  (going  to  him).     There,  there,  Bobbie  —  I  know! 

It  does  seem  as  if  everything  was  set  against  his  getting  a 

chance.     But  we  will  have  to  think  hard  —  and  stand 

together  —  and  just  be  patient  a  little  longer. 
BOB.     Well,  I'll  tell  you  something!     It  wouldn't  surprise 

me  none  if  he'd  run  away  and  enlist  some  day. 
EMELIE.     He  can't!     He's  too  young. 
BOB.     What's  the  matter  with  lying? 
EMELIE.     Bobby ! 
BOB.     Oh,  well,  Jiminy  Crickuts!    If  I  wanted  to  get  out  of 

a  place  as  bad  as  Jim  does  out  'a  this  one,  my  brain  'u'd 

get  so  cracked  I'd  forget  my  name  —  let  alone  my  birth 
day.     Where's  Mother?     Out? 
EMELIE.     I  think  she's  taking  a  nap,  dear  —  she  went  up  to 

lie  down.     You  know  she's  all  worn  out  with  nursing  — 
BOB  (nodding  and  speaking  quickly).     Does  she  take  it  all 

right  —  your  going? 
EMELIE.     Bobs,  dear!    I  don't  like  to  hear  you  speak  of 

Mother  that  Way. 
BOB.     Aw,  gee! 
EMELIE.     Well,  I  don't!    It  sounds  so  disrespectful.     And 

you  love  her. 

BOB.     Course  I  do  —  you  know  it ! 
EMELIE.     Sure  I  know  it.     Why,  just  think!    You  are  her 

baby! 

BOB  (slyly) .     Say,  I  don't  get  no  chance  to  forget  that  neither. 
EMELIE  (shaking  him).     Bobbie,  you're  incorrigible. 
BOB  (purposely  as  ungrammatical  as  he  knows  how  to  be).     I 

ain't  never  goin'  to  get  no  chance  to  grow  up!     I'm  like 

that  guy  —  what's  his  name?     Peter  Pan!     That's  me! 

Well,  where's  this  letter  you  wanted  me  to  mail? 

[Going  to  table. 

EMELIE.     You  haven't  been  to  the  post  office? 
BOB.     No.     (Half  sheepishly)     Mrs.  Lane's.     She  promised 

to  have  something  for  me.     (Picks  up  letter)     Bosting, 


THE  CONFLICT  251 


eh?     Well  —  Jumpin'  «700-hosaphat !    What  do  you  want 
to  mail  this  here  for?     Why  don't  you  take  it  along? 

EMELIE.     I'm  not  going  that  way. 

BOB.     You  ain't  going  by  the  5.15  to  Boston? 

EMELIE.     No,  dear  youth  —  I  take  the  5.05  to  New  York. 

BOB  (whistles).    Mother  know? 

[Enter  Bess  with  lilacs.    She  stays  up  at  door. 

EMELIE.     Yes,  she  —  knows. 

BOB.     Well,  I'm  off.     (To  Bess)     Shall  we  show  her  what 
I  got? 
[tixits.     Emelie  looks  up  questioningly. 

BESS  (explaining  Bob's  last  speech).     Some  plants,  Emelie. 

EMELIE.     Oh,  for  Father!     (Taking  the  lilacs  from  Bess) 
Thank   you,    dear  —  they're   beautiful  —  and   like   you. 
They'll  go  along  to  take  care  of  me,  Sweetheart. 
[Reenter  Bob  with  a  broad,  shallow  basket  filled  with  pansy 
plants. 

BOB.  Pansies!  Ain't  they  beauts?  Mrs.  Lane  gave  'em 
to  me.  It  looks  so  rough  up  there  —  no  sod,  nor  nothin' 
growin'.  Bess  an'  I  were  goin'  to  set  'em  out  this  after 
noon,  but  they  can  wait  till  morning.  I  won't  have 
more'n  time  to  get  to  the  postoffice  and  back  before  your 
train  goes.  Well  —  you  don't  have  far  to  go  —  that's 
one  comfort.  Comes  in  sort  o'  handy,  this  havin'  a  private 
railroad  station  at  your  back  door,  eh?  Well  —  I'm  off. 

EMELIE.  Wait,  Bobbie.  I  don't  want  you  to  come  back 
here. 

BOB.     What!     Not  to  say  good-by? 

EMELIE.  I  can't  say  good-by  to  you  children  that  way.  I 
don't  want  either  of  you  here  when  —  they're  going  to  be 
so  hard  —  these  last  few  moments  with  Mother.  Bess 
will  take  the  pansies  and  wait  for  you  —  you  know  the 
little  siding  where  the  train  almost  stops?  I'll  wave 
good-by  to  you  there;  and  after  the  train's  gone,  why 
you  two  can  go  to  the  cemetery  together,  and  all  the  way 
to  New  York  I'll  be  seeing  you  setting  out  the  pansies  on 
Father's  grave. 


252  THE   CONFLICT 

BOB.     Don't,  Em !    Funny  how  a  feller  misses  him  —  though 
he  hardly  ever  said  much  —    Aw'  Gee !    (Disgusted  with 
himself  for  showing  emotion)     Take  care  of  yourself,  Em. 
Write  soon! 
[Rushes  blindly  off. 

The  two  girls  stand  a  moment  in  each  other's  arms,  then  they 
break  away  with  a  guilty  look  at  the  clock. 

BESS.     Do  you  think  she's  sleeping? 

EMELIE.      No. 

BESS.     Then  why  — 

EMELIE.  Oh,  it  makes  it  so  hard  for  me !  It's  her  way,  you 
know  —  Will  you  go  up  and  tell  her,  dear,  that  I'm  almost 
ready  to  go  —  and  that  there  isn't  much  more  time? 

BESS  (crossing  towards  the  door  to  the  back  stairway).  Yes. 
What  did  you  do  with  your  suitcase,  Sister? 

EMELIE.     I  sent  it  over  early  this  afternoon.     And  Bess  — 
I  don't  want  to  go  up  to  the  room  again  —  you  might  just 
bring  my  hat  and  coat,  dear  —  I  have  everything  else. 
[Bess  runs  up  the  back  stairway,  leaving  the  door  swing  open 
behind  her. 

Emelie  gathers  up  her  writing  materials,  dropping  the  letters 
into  the  little  satchel.  One  of  these  she  stops  to  reread;  in  the 
midst  of  it,  with  a  little  sob,  and  a  gesture  of  renunciation,  she 
tears  up  the  letter  and  drops  the  pieces  into  the  fire.  Coming 
back  she  stops  and  picks  a  pansy  which  she  slips  into  the  book 
on  the  table  before  she  drops  that  into  the  satchel,  too. 
Bess  comes  down  the  stairs  carrying  Emelie's  hat  and 
coat. 

BESS.  She'll  be  down  in  a  minute.  (Then,  in  reply  to  the 
question  in  Emelie 's  face)  She  was  up  —  looking  out  of 
the  window. 

EMELIE.     What  did  she  say? 

BESS.     Only  that  she  thought  you'd  given  up  going. 

EMELIE  (sighs).     Good-by,  dear. 

BESS.     You  won't  forget  you're  going  to  send  for  me? 

EMELIE.     I  won't  forget. 

BESS  (taking  up  basket).     Bobs  and  I'll  be  at  the  siding. 


THE   CONFLICT  253 


EMELIE.  And  I'll  be  sure  to  lean  out  of  the  window  and 
throw  you  kisses  as  far  as  I  can  see  you. 

BESS  (tremulously).     Good-by. 

[She  goes  out  waving  her  hand  and  is  seen  passing  the 
window. 

EMELIE.  Good-by,  little  sister  —  and  God  keep  you,  dar 
ling  —  as  you  are. 

(She  turns  and  sees  Mother,  who  during  the  last  speech  has 
come  down  the  stairway.  She  has  taken  down  the  kitchen 
apron  that  is  hanging  on  nail  inside  of  door,  and  is  putting 
it  on.  There  is  a  moment's  embarrassed  pause,  then  Emelie 
speaks)  Mother  —  I  hated  to  disturb  you ;  but  I  was 
beginning  to  be  afraid  you  might  not  waken  till  the  last 
minute. 

MOTHER  (placidly).  I  wasn't  asleep.  I  thought  you'd  re 
considered  going. 

EMELIE.     Mother  —  you  make  it  so  hard  for  me  — 

MOTHER.  I  mean  to  make  it  hard  —  very  hard.  (She  goes 
to  the  dresser  and  takes  from  it  a  large  pan  of  apples,  a  knife 
and  a  bowl.  Then  she  draws  the  cane-seated  rocker  to  the 
left  of  the  table  and  proceeds  to  peel  the  apples  in  long,  thin, 
unbroken  curls  —  possible  only  for  the  woman  with  a  steady 
hand  and  no  troublesome  nerves).  For  that  matter,  I've 
never  said  that  staying  right  here  was  going  to  be  the  easy 
thing  for  you  to  do;  but  you  can't  get  out  of  the  fact  that 
it's  your  duty,  Emelie.  (The  rocker  stops  a  moment,  as 
though  its  occupant  expected  a  reply;  then,  as  there  is  none, 
it  continues  its  placid  rhythmic  swing,  as  the  Mother  resumes 
her  argument)  You  can't  always  have  things  the  way  you 
want  them  —  and  I  don't  think  it  would  be  good  for  you 
if  you  could.  (Emelie,  who  has  come  down  behind  the  table, 
makes  a  sudden  sharp  movement  as  though  to  speak,  then 
closes  her  lips  firmly.  She  picks  up  one  of  her  gloves,  ex 
amines  it  mechanically  for  a  moment  —  and  then  goes  up 
stage  to  the  work  basket,  and  stands  there  finding  needle  and 
thread,  etc.,  during  next  speeches.  Meanwhile  all  the  mother's 
attention  appears  to  be  centered  on  the  careful  coring  and 


254  THE  CONFLICT 

quartering  of  the  apple  in  her  hand.  She  leisurely  selects 
another  before  continuing)  Now  that  you've  got  used  to 
your  freedom  and  your  own  way,  it's  asking  a  sacrifice  of 
you  —  I  realize  that;  but  you'll  have  to  make  lots  of 
them  before  you're  as  old  as  I  am. 

EMELIE  (with  a  sudden  lift  of  her  head,  and  in  a  tone  crisp, 
clean-cut,  that  somehow  shows  the  fight  is  on)  It's  your  idea 
of  life,  isn't  it,  Mother? 

MOTHER.     Making  sacrifices? 

EMELIE.     Yes. 

MOTHER.  Well,  it's  a  pretty  big  part  of  it  —  as  you'll  find 
out. 

EMELIE.     I'm  a  poor  scholar. 

MOTHER.     When  you  don't  like  the  lesson? 

EMELIE.  Yes.  For  nearly  twenty  years  I've  tried  to  learn 
it,  but  —  I  can't  do  it. 

MOTHER.     How  you  exaggerate,  Emelie! 

[There  is  nothing  impetuous  in  the  speech  of  these  women  — 
there  is  power  —  repose  —  reserve  —  at  bottom  both  are  very 
much  alike. 

EMELIE.  Oh,  no,  I  don't!  Stop  and  think.  I  was  three 
years  old  when  Robert  was  born.  I  was  expected  to 
grow  out  of  babyhood  right  then  and  there.  And  when 
he  died  —  there  was  James  to  do  for  —  and  give  in  to. 
Do  you  remember  what  a  naughty  child  I  used  to  be? 
Poor  little  tempestuous  mite  —  always  being  punished  — 
hardly  ever  understanding  what  for  — 

MOTHER.     Well,  you  did  have  a  bad  temper. 

EMELIE.  And,  of  course,  that  had  to  be  sacrificed!  (At  the 
little  exclamation  of  surprise  from  her  mother  she  continues 
hastily)  Oh,  I  know  that  must  sound  absurd  to  you, 
because  you  don't  —  perhaps  you  can't  see  it  as  I  do; 
but  all  the  little  things  you  didn't  like  about  me  —  had  to 
be  lopped  off,  even  if  I  was  as  surely  maimed  thereby  as 
though  you  had  cut  off  my  arms  and  legs.  Dear  Mother! 
I  know  you  meant  everything  for  the  best  —  always ! 
You  were  determined  I  should  be  unselfish  —  well- 


THE   CONFLICT  255 


disciplined  —  and  self -controlled  —  cut  out  and  fashioned 
by  a  pattern  on  your  nail;  weren't  you? 
[She  has  come  down  right  of  table  during  this  speech,  and  on 
the  last  two  words,  to  soften  the  unfilial  tone  of  it,  reaches  out 
and  just  touches  her  mother's  hand. 

MOTHER  (not  hurt  at  all  by  the  criticism  —  and  equally  un 
touched  by  the  caress).  Do  you  think  you're  any  the  worse 
for  it? 

EMELIE.     Who  knows? 

MOTHER.  I  don't  think  I  understand  you,  Emelie.  Just 
what  do  you  mean  to  complain  of? 

EMELIE.  I  don't  mean  to  complain  of  anything,  dear.  You 
loved  us  all  devotedly  —  no  one  could  have  been  a  better 
mother  —  if  only  —  (she  hesitates,  then  finishes  whimsically) 
If  only  you  could  have  individualized  us  a  bit,  dear,  instead 
of  lumping  us  all  together  as  just  "your  children.'1 

MOTHER  (her  hands  idle  for  a  moment,  she  revolves  what  seemed 
to  her  an  absurd  arraignment;  then,  surrendering  to  the 
apparent  need  for  justification).  I  suppose  you  will  admit, 
Emelie,  that  you  were  a  very  jealous  child? 

EMELIE.  Oh,  undoubtedly!  Frightfully  so!  Did  you 
think  you  had  cured  me,  Mother? 

MOTHER.     I  tried  — 

EMELIE.  On  the  contrary,  you  fed  the  flame  —  don't  you 
see?  You  exercised  the  unlovely  thing  till  it  grew  strong. 
I  learnt  jealousy  as  a  fine  art  at  the  mature  age  of  seven. 
It  frightens  me  to  think  how  I  used  to  feel  —  how  I  could 
feel  now  if  any  —  (she  catches  herself  up  and  finishes  rather 
lamely  —  as  she  goes  back  to  the  sewing  table)  any  one  gave 
me  cause. 

MOTHER  (looking  back  after  her  a  moment  —  then  down  at 
her  work).  Emelie!  You've  never  told  us  —  me  —  much 
about  your  friends. 

EMELIE.  No?  (She  lingers  a  bit  unnecessarily  over  the  smooth 
ing  out  of  the  gloves,  but  finally  places  them  beside  her  hat 
and  coat  and  comes  slowly  down  to  her  mother's  side)  What 
is  it  you  would  like  to  know,  Mother? 


256  THE  CONFLICT 


MOTHER.  Something  about  the  way  you're  living  now  —  the 
people  who  have  helped  you  in  your  work.  That  girl  you 
roomed  with  first  —  for  instance;  what's  become  of  her? 

EMELIE.     I  don't  know.     I  never  see  her  any  more. 

MOTHER.     Why  not? 

EMELIE.  Mother !  Let's  not  go  into  that.  It's  a  long  story 
—  and  it  would  have  no  bearing  on  the  subject  we  are 
discussing. 

MOTHER  (mildly).     I  thought  that  was  settled. 

EMELIE  (her  eyes  flashing  ominously,  but  her  voice  quiet). 
Did  you?  You  thought  that  all  my  life  to  come  was  to 
be  narrowed  within  the  limits  of  your  "NO";  that  I'd 
give  up  my  plan  to  go  to  New  York,  forego  all  the  splen 
did  opportunities  this  year  is  holding  out  to  me,  just 
because  you  believe  my  duty  is  here.  And  after  all,  is 
that  your  real  reason,  Mother?  Isn't  it  rather  that  you're 
afraid  —  that  you  distrust  your  child  —  and  your  teach 
ing?  If  not,  why  is  it  that  you  seem  to  resent  each 
problem  that  I  dare  to  solve  for  myself,  each  step  I  take 
unaided,  each  fresh  proof  that  I'm  no  longer  a  child  at  your 
apron-strings? 

MOTHER.     Emelie ! 

EMELIE.  Yes,  Mother,  I  beg  your  pardon.  I  know  I'm 
going  to  hate  myself  presently  for  talking  to  you  like  this 
-  but  can't  you  see  that  I've  got  to  fight  you?  All  my 
life  with  you  has  been  a  fight  —  a  fight  to  keep  true  to 
myself  —  a  constant  conflict  of  wills  —  ideals  and  prin 
ciples  that  clash  and  clash  —  it's  terrible  —  terrible! 
Can't  you  see  - 
[She  stops  to  get  hold  of  herself. 

MOTHER.     Can't  I  see  what,  Emelie? 

EMELIE  (more  gently).  Can't  you  see  that  you  cannot  hope 
to  always  have  the  ordering  of  your  children's  lives?  We 
grow  up;  it  is  the  way  of  children,  Mother.  We  have 
adult  responsibilities  —  problems  of  our  own  which  we 
have  a  right  to  face  ourselves;  and  to  each  one  of  our 
battles  we  bring  all  that  we  have  inherited  from  our 


THE  CONFLICT  257 


parents  —  and  all  the  teaching  we've  got  at  their  hands  — 
but  something  of  our  own  besides.  And,  Mother  — 
(she  kneels  beside  her)  that  something  is  the  God  within 
us!  Forever  to  do  violence  to  that  something  is  to  kill 
the  individual.  Can't  you  —  can't  you  try  to  understand 
before  it's  too  late?  Jim  —  Bess  —  Bobs,  even,  will  have 
his  future  some  day  to  decide  for  himself. 

MOTHER.  That's  just  why  you're  needed  at  home;  you're 
the  eldest.  You  always  were  more  like  a  boy  than  a  girl  — 
Jim'll  listen  to  you. 

EMELIE.  It  took  me  a  long  time,  Mother,  to  realize  how 
exacting  your  love  was.  Do  you  remember  how  you  op 
posed  the  idea  of  my  studying  in  Boston?  Why,  if  I  had 
not  gotten  that  first  scholarship  at  the  art  school,  I'd 
never  have  had  my  chance  at  all  —  and  then  I  had  to  go 
with  the  bitter  thought  of  your  displeasure  at  my  heart 
like  a  stone  all  summer  long. 

MOTHER  (rather  proudly).  You  had  it  in  you!  You'd  have 
gotten  there  just  the  same  —  no  matter  where  you  studied 
—  if  a  little  later,  perhaps. 

EMELIE.  Yes,  but  that's  such  a  tragedy !  The  joy  of  battle 
and  achievement  belongs  to  youth!  /  want  it  now!  Not 
when  I'm  forty.  And  you  know  that  if  I  hadn't  made 
good  —  right  from  the  very  start  —  I  should  have  had 
to  come  home.  Not  because  my  people  couldn't  afford 
it  —  that  I  would  have  understood  —  but  just  because 
Fate  —  in  your  own  person  —  said  "No!"  Talk  about 
signs  from  heaven !  I  fairly  worshiped  those  first  checks. 
Why,  fifty  dollars  was  a  fortune  that  meant  room-rent 
for  a  month  —  yes,  and  food,  too.  It  took  so  little  to 
live  in  a  hall  bedroom  with  the  aid  of  a  twenty-five-cent 
gas-stove  and  the  delicatessen  around  the  corner. 

MOTHER  (dryly).     No  wonder  you've  ruined  your  digestion. 

EMELIE.  Digestion  depends  upon  the  frame  of  mind, 
Mother.  Mine  was  better  in  the  hall  bedroom  than  it 
has  been  here  in  my  father's  house,  bottling  up  my  sorrow 
and  fighting  your  displeasure. 


258  THE   CONFLICT 


[The  girl's  lips  quiver  pitifully.  The  Mother  rises,  and,  on 
her  way  back  to  the  sink  with  the  apples,  she  stops  with  a  half- 
clumsy  caress  and  says  gently 

MOTHER.  You're  a  good  girl,  Emelie,  lots  of  ways.  You 
mustn't  think  I'm  always  finding  fault  with  you.  It's 
strange  how  you've  taken  your  father's  death  harder  than 
any  of  the  other  children  —  though  you  were  away  from 
home  so  much  —  and  never  his  favorite. 

EMELIE.  I  guess  there's  no  grief  quite  so  bitter  as  the  loss 
of  some  one  we  have  loved  imperfectly.  Oh,  it's  all  so 
irrevocable  —  and  it's  such  a  pity.  Father  —  working, 
slaving  all  his  life  for  us  —  unrecompensed,  unappreciated. 

MOTHER.  Why,  Emelie!  I  think  we  all  did  our  duty  by 
Father. 

EMELIE.  Duty?  Oh,  yes.  Duty  —  weighed  —  measured; 
so  much  politeness,  so  much  service,  so  much  tolerance 
of  individual  likings  —  with  a  sort  of  affection,  too,  of 
course.  We  all  loved  Father  —  Oh,  as  a  father,  all  very 
much  according  to  the  letter  of  the  law  —  but  did  any  of 
us  ever  try  to  understand  him  —  as  an  individual,  like 
ourselves?  And  now  it's  too  late!  Oh,  Mother  dear,  I 
do  wish  we  could  understand  each  other  a  little  better 
before  I  go. 

MOTHER  (in  the  act  of  crossing  to  the  range  with  the  saucepan 
of  apples) .     But  I  thought  you'd  come  to  see  it  my  way  - 
about  going. 

EMELIE  (with  a  little  wail  of  hopeless  desperation  in  her  voice) . 
Yes,  yes,  I  know  you  did !  And  the  pity  of  it  is  that  you'll 
keep  on  thinking  so  till  the  whistle  blows.  We  talk  round 
and  round  in  a  circle  —  and  my  train  will  be  here  in  fifteen 
minutes.  Couldn't  you  just  give  in  once  —  kiss  me 
good-by  and  wish  me  success?  It  takes  lots  of  strength  to 
travel  the  hard  lonely  road  in  a  strange  city. 

MOTHER  (she  is  through  with  her  work.  NOW  they  will 
have  it  out.  She  turns  her  back  definitely  upon  the  range, 
and  for  the  first  time  speaks  directly  to  the  girl.  All  through 
the  preceding  scene  she  has  made  you  feel  that  Emelie  and 


THE  CONFLICT  259 


her  problem  must  take  second  place  to  this  dish  of  apple 
sauce —  the  duty  of  the  moment}.  That's  another  thing  I 
don't  understand.  You  might  as  well  be  frank  with  me, 
Emelie.  I've  never  liked  secrecy  —  and  you're  mighty 
close  about  your  affairs.  You  were  perfectly  content  with 
Boston  when  you  came  here  a  month  ago.  What's 
changed  you  —  why  this  sudden  notion  for  going  to  New 
York,  instead? 

EMELIE  (half-heartedly).  We'll  all  need  more  money  now 
that  Father's  gone  —  and  Jim's  not  making  much  yet. 
I  think  I  can  earn  more  in  New  York. 

MOTHER.  And  spend  more,  too.  A  year  ago  you  were  de 
lighted  with  your  place. 

EMELIE.  That  was  a  year  ago.  Now,  the  drawing  of  in 
sipid  faces  and  faultless  figures  in  absurd  gowns  seems 
intolerable  —  because  I've  grown  and  my  work  has  grown. 
Fashion- work  was  just  a  means  to  keep  me  in  food  and 
lodging  while  I  studied. 

MOTHER.  Suppose  you  don't  get  anything  to  do  —  what 
then? 

EMELIE.  I'm  pretty  sure  to  fall  into  something.  If  I  fail, 
there's  always  the  fashion-work  to  fall  back  on.  But  I 
have  offers  —  good  ones. 

MOTHER.     Who  from? 

EMELIE.     Friends  who  have  faith  in  me. 

MOTHER.  That's  another  thing  I  don't  like.  You  never 
talk  about  your  friends.  'Tain't  natural  —  unless  you're 
ashamed  of  them. 

EMELIE.     Mother ! 

MOTHER.  I  don't  care  —  it  doesn't  look  right.  YouVe 
had  letters  and  sent  some  every  day  —  even  the  day  of  the 
funeral  —  but  I  notice  how  careful  you  were  not  to  let 
them  lie  around  none. 

EMELIE  (looks  nervously  around  the  room  —  her  eyes  light 
on  the  clock).  Mother,  we're  wasting  time.  You've 
known  all  along  that  I  couldn't  stay  on  here  indefinitely. 

MOTHER.     I  can't  see  why  not.     Why  is  one  place  any  better 


260  THE   CONFLICT 


than  another  to  make  pictures  in?  The  boys  are  away  all 
day.  You  needn't  be  afraid  I'd  expect  much  housework 
of  you. 

EMELIE  (looks  at  her  mother  in  silence  for  a  moment.  There 
grows  in  her  face  a  determination  to  force  the  issue,  yet  she 
reads  the  unspoken  trouble  at  her  mother's  heart  and  her 
sense  of  justice  counsels  her  to  be  very  patient  under  the 
probe).  Mother,  suppose  we  quit  fencing  like  this  —  get 
down  to  facts.  Just  why  are  you  so  determined  to  keep 
me  here? 

MOTHER.  I  dont  trust  you,  Emelie,  and  that's  the  truth. 
You  are  changed  somehow.  You're  older  and  more 
world-wise  —  and  nervous  —  and  there's  something  going 
on  that  you  don't  tell  me.  You  never  were  one  to  talk 
much,  but  you  don't  give  me  your  confidence  at  all,  now. 

EMELIE.  And  you  think  you  can  force  it?  Have  I  ever 
given  you  any  real  cause  for  not  trusting  me? 

MOTHER  (reluctantly}.     Not  as  I  know  of. 

EMELIE.  Am  I  necessarily  guilty  of  something  unless  I  con 
tinually  prove  myself  innocent? 

MOTHER.     I  don't  like  it.     You're  not  frank  with  me. 

EMELIE.  I'm  all  right,  Mother.  Oh,  why  should  I  worry 
you  with  my  problems?  I  can't  do  it  —  though  I  love 
you,  dear.  (She  flings  her  arms  impulsively  around  her 
mother's  neck;  but  the  whole  unyielding  figure  is  so  pro 
hibitive,  so  keenly  censorious,  that  the  next  moment  her  hands 
fall  limply  to  her  side)  Well  —  what  is  it  you  want  to 
know,  Mother? 

MOTHER  (grasping  at  the  permission,  without  noticing  what  she 
pays  for  it).  This  man  you've  been  getting  letters  from  — 
who  is  he? 

EMELIE.  A  gentleman  I  met  through  my  work,  Mother. 
He's  been  very  good  to  me  —  in  a  business  way  - 

MOTHER.  Yes,  but  it  don't  look  like  just  business  to  be 
writing  letters  back  and  forth  every  day  - 

EMELIE.  Then  it  would  be  safe  to  conclude  that  there  was 
more  than  just  business  between  us. 


THE  CONFLICT  261 


MOTHER.     What's  his  name? 

EMELIE  (flinching).     Is  that  necessary? 

MOTHER.     Are  you  ashamed  of  him? 

EMELIE.       No. 

MOTHER  (after  a  dissatisfied  pause).     What's  he  do? 

EMELIE.     He's  —  he's  on  a  magazine,  Mother  —  what  they 
call  "Managing  Editor." 

MOTHER.     That  how  you  came  to  meet  him? 

EMELIE.     Yes.     I  illustrated  some  articles  for  him. 

MOTHER  (not  looking  at  her) .     Known  him  long  —  do  you  see 
much  of  him? 

EMELIE.     About  a  year.     Yes,  I  see  quite  a  great  deal  of 
him. 

[The  girl's  steady  eyes  have  never  wavered  from  her  mother's 
face.  There  is  a  cold,  bitter  little  smile  about  her  lips.  She 
could  quicker  understand  a  storm  of  passionate,  anxious 
scolding  than  this  inquisitorial  skirmishing  that  keeps  getting 
closer  and  closer  to  the  vital  question,  but  that  dreads  to  ask  it. 

MOTHER.     I  suppose  he  takes  you  out  —  sometimes? 

EMELIE.     Frequently. 

MOTHER.     You  go  —  alone  —  with  him? 

EMELIE.     Usually. 

MOTHER.     Of  course  —  he's  single? 

EMELIE.       No. 

MOTHER.     What ! 

EMELIE    (stiffening    against    the    table  —  her   nervous   hands 

fingering  the  edge  of  the  cloth,  her  coat,  her  gloves).     He's 

married.     I  don't  think  I  am  hurting  his  wife.     She  does 

not  care. 

MOTHER  (indignantly).     How  do  you  know? 
EMELIE.     They  have  not  lived  together  for  years;    she's 

abroad  most  of  the  time. 
MOTHER    (speaking   the   word   as   though   it   were   sacrilege). 

Divorced? 
EMELIE.     No  —  there's    a    child  —  a    girl,    just    reaching 

womanhood.     For  her   sake  —  well,   they've   never  just 

happened  to  — 


THE  CONFLICT 


MOTHER.     And  you  run  around  with  him  like  this  —  you? 

I  want  to  know  —  he  says  he  loves  you? 
EMELIE  (laughing  shortly).     Yes. 
MOTHER.     And  you? 
EMELIE.     I  love  him  —  yes. 

[The  last  speeches  have  been  spoken  almost  flippantly.     Her 

attitude,  during  the  earlier  part  of  the  scene,  has  been  that  of  a 

child  whistling  in  the  dark.     Now  that  her  secret  has  been 

dragged  boldly,  nakedly  into  the  daylight  her  attitude  becomes 

one   of  impregnable,    hurt   defiance.     In   her   anxiety   the 

mother  is  blind. 
MOTHER.     I  can't  grasp  it!     I've  felt  there  was  something 

like  this  in  the  wind  all  along  —  yet  I  couldn't  believe  it 

of  you,  Emelie.     Mind  you,  I'm  not  saying  you've  done 

anything  really  bad  — 
EMELIE.     Thank  you. 

[There  is  a  flash  of  gratitude  in  her  face  but  it  fades  into 

bitterness  as  her  mother  quite  unconsciously  spoils  it. 
MOTHER.     You've  had  too  good  training  for  that  —  but  I  didn't 

think  you'd  cheapen  yourself  so.     How  can  you  believe 

this  man  — 
EMELIE.     Because  belief  is  the  very  life  of  love  —  something 

you've  never  learnt,  Mother.     You  kill  love  by  doubting 

it. 
MOTHER.     Can't  very  well  believe  in  a  married  man  who 

makes  love  — 
EMELIE.     Mother!    Might  I  suggest  that  you  do  not  know 

either  the  man  or  the  circumstances? 
MOTHER  (very  emphatically).     There  aren't  any  circumstances 

that  can  make  wrong  right. 
EMELIE.     Oh!     (Pause)     Very    well.     Then,    since    you've 

judged  me,  what  do  you  propose  to  do? 
MOTHER.     I  am  trying  to  think.     You  want  to  go  to  New 

York.     Why? 

EMELIE.       I  told  yOU  - 

MOTHER.     You  didn't!     You  told  me  a  lot   of  nonsense. 
You  never  gave  me  the  real  reason. 


THE   CONFLICT  263 


EMELIE.     Which  is  — 

MOTHER.     This   man !     He   lives   in   New   York  —  or   he's 
going  to  live  there.     Ain't  that  why  you  want  to  go? 
[  The  girl  looks  at  her  mother  incredulously  —  her  whole 
attitude  one  of  helpless  aloofness.     It  is  as  though  she  looked 
across  an  ever-widening  gulf  at  the  dead. 

EMELIE  (with  a  gesture  of  hopelessness) .     Well  — 

MOTHER.  Do  you  think  I  can't  put  two  and  two  together? 
Those  big  envelopes  you  got  from  New  York  yesterday 
and  again  to-day  —  and  you  walking  about  like  one  in  a 
dream!  He's  on  a  magazine  you  say  —  and  look  at  you  — 
so  sure  of  getting  work  in  a  strange  city.  Well,  why 
don't  you  speak?  Isn't  it  so? 

EMELIE.  What's  the  use  of  speaking?  You  can't  expect  to 
extract  truth  with  a  probe  —  and  get  it  out  undamaged. 
You  have  chosen  to  put  your  own  construction  on  ap 
pearances  —  go  on !  I'm  anxious  to  see  what  you're 
going  to  make  of  it.  Just  what  you  will  do  to  my  life. 
[The  train  is  heard  whistling  in  the  distance. 

MOTHER.     You  shall  not  go  to  New  York  to-night. 

EMELIE.  No?  Well,  that  looks  exceedingly  probable.  I 
should  have  to  run  now  to  catch  the  train.  Yet  I  could 
make  it!  Quick,  Mother!  I  know  all  that's  worrying 
you.  But  of  what  good  was  your  training  if  you  can't 
trust  me?  I've  made  my  choice  —  I  want  to  abide  by  it. 
Just  say  that  I  may. 

MOTHER.  You  see!  Why  are  you  so  set  on  going  by  this 
very  train  if  it  isn't  an  appointment?  If  you  are  so  deter 
mined  on  leaving  home  to-night  it  will  have  to  be  for 
Boston.  You're  playing  on  the  brink  of  a  precipice  — 
—  and  you  don't  know  it ! 

EMELIE.     Take  care,  Mother,  that  you  don't  push  me  over  — 

MOTHER.  Oh,  yes  —  I  know  you're  stubborn  —  but  after 
all,  you're  my  child !  Maybe  when  you've  had  a  night  to 
think  - 

[The  unwonted  stimulus  of  opposition  has  aroused  the  mother 
quite  out  of  her  quiet  calm.     All  the  majesty  of  outraged 


264  THE   CONFLICT 


motherhood  is  in  her  bearing  as  she  sweeps  to  the  outer  door 
and  locks  it.  After  the  first  little  cry  of  "  Mother,  dont  do 
that!"  the  girl  makes  no  protest.  Listlessly  she  goes  to  the 
sink;  as  in  a  dream  she  washes  her  hands  and  dries  them 
on  the  roller-towel,  and  at  the  little  mirror  studies  her  face 
curiously  while  she  fastens  on  her  hat.  While  she  is  doing 
this  the  smoke  of  the  New  York  train  darkens  the  window. 
The  girl  parts  the  curtains  and  stands  watching.  You  hear 
the  grinding  of  brakes,  the  hissing  of  escaping  air,  the  momen 
tary  portentous  silence,  the  clang  of  the  bell,  the  exhaust  — 
and  then  the  throbbing  of  the  departing  south-bound  train. 
The  girl  slips  into  her  coat  and  picks  up  her  bag  as  the  mother 
moves  stolidly  over  to  the  door  and  throws  it  open.  Once  more 
a  shaft  of  sunlight  —  a  long,  pale  one  this  time  — falls  across 
the  threshold,  and  the  birds  break  out  into  a  joyous  twittering. 
The  girl  joins  her  mother  in  the  doorway,  and  for  a  moment 
they  stand  there  in  silence,  so  incongruously  out  of  it  all  — 
all  that  the  spring  would  tell  them  if  they  could  but  hear. 

EMELIE.     Well,  Mother  —  good-by. 

MOTHER.  I  suppose  you'll  have  to  go,  now.  You  wouldn't 
care  to  stay  till  morning? 

EMELIE.     Hardly. 

MOTHER  (flustered  by  the  girl's  steady  eyes,  takes  refuge  in  a 
commonplace).  I'd  'a*  thought  you'd  have  more  pride, 
Emelie.  I  had  when  I  was  your  age.  You'll  write? 

EMELIE.     I  don't  know  —  it  depends. 

MOTHER.     On  what? 

EMELIE.  I  can't  see  the  outcome  of  this,  Mother.  But 
whatever  happens  I  want  you  to  feel  that  I'll  not  hold  you 
responsible  for  my  decisions. 

MOTHER.     Emelie! 

EMELIE.  Funny !  You  believe  in  predestination  —  don't 
you,  Mother?  I  never  did  —  before.  I  never  could  see 
Fate  as  a  cat  playing  with  a  mouse  —  I  never  believed 
that  God  played  with  us  in  wanton  sport,  but  what's  the 
difference  if  He  lets  His  creatures  do  it  for  Him? 

MOTHER.     You  mustn't  talk  like  that  —  I  don't  understand. 


THE   CONFLICT  265 


EMELIE.     I  hope  you  never  will. 

MOTHER  (drawing  her  quickly  to  her  in  alarm} .     Emelie ! 

EMELIE.  Oh,  don't!  Please  don't!  (In  a  sudden  burst  of 
anger  she  tears  herself  brusquely  out  of  her  mother's  arms) 
You've  faith  in  no  one  but  yourself!  Well,  you  can  sleep 
to-night  very  sure  of  how  beautifully  you've  managed 
every  one's  life.  (Train  whistles)  Let  me  go!  I  don't 
want  to  miss  my  train. 

[Emelie  goes  quickly  out  of  the  door  and  down  the  walk  without 
a  backward  look. 

MOTHER  (making  a  movement  after  her).  Emelie!  What  a 
way  for  a  girl  to  speak  to  her  mother!  (Muttering  to  her 
self)  Well,  she  needn't  feel  so  bitter  about  it.  I'm  sure 
I  did  it  all  for  her  own  good.  But  that's  the  way  with 
children.  (Coming  down)  They  never  understand  — 
till  it's  too  late.  She's  forgot  her  flowers.  Well,  it's  too 
late  for  them,  too.  I  wonder  what  she  meant  by  — 
[Bess  is  heard  calling  from  right  "Emelie!  Oh,  Emelie! 
Where  are  you?  "  She  runs  excitedly  in  at  the  door  down  right, 
and  takes  in  her  mother's  appearance  with  an  evident  start 
of  dismay.  Train  is  heard  stopping. 

BESS.  Why,  Mother!  Where's  Emelie?  Didn't  she  «o? 
We  waited  for  her  at  the  siding.  I'm  sure  she  wasn't  on 
the  train,  for  it  stopped  an  awful  long  time  there.  We 
ran  all  the  way  back.  I  came  cross-lots  and  through  the 
front  because  Bob  got  a  — 

BOB  (who  has  run  around  the  house  is  seen  passing  window  and 
runs  in  at  kitchen  door).     Didn't  she  go? 
[Train  is  heard  going  rapidly  in  distance. 

MOTHER  (after  a  pause).     Yes  —  she  went. 

BESS.     To  New  York? 

MOTHER.     No  —  to  Boston. 

BESS.     Oh !    I  wonder  what  made  her  change  her  mind. 

BOB.  Shucks!  And  I  found  this  telegram  for  her  at  the 
postoffice,  too!  That  chump  of  a  green  kid  of  Sweeny's 
put  it  in  our  mail  box. 

MOTHER.     A  telegram? 


266  THE   CONFLICT 


BOB.     Yes;  do  you  suppose  it's  anything  important? 

MOTHER.  Give  it  to  me.  I'll  see.  (She  opens  it  —  reads  — 
looks  stunned.  Still  clutching  the  envelope,  in  a  dazed  sort 
of  way  she  drops  the  telegram,  and  crosses  unsteadily  towards 
the  door,  left)  Emelie!  My  girl!  Oh,  why  didn't  you  tell 
me?  Why  didn't  you  tell  me?  (She  goes  heavily,  brokenly 
up  the  stairs,  muttering)  I  —  I  didn't  understand  her  — 
she  said  —  Oh,  my  God  —  my  God!  What  have  I  done? 

BOB.  Why,  whatever's  the  matter  with  Mother?  What's 
in  the  thing,  anyway?  (Picks  up  telegram)  That's  funny 
—  I  don't  see  anything  in  this  — 

BESS  (faintly).     What's  —  it  say,  Bobs? 

BOB.  Why,  all  it  says  is  —  "You  can't  mean  to  go  out  of 
my  life  like  this.  Think  how  I  need  you.  I  shall  be 
waiting  at  South  Station  for  you  to-night,  with  what 
anxiety  you  can  imagine.  Don't  fail  me.  Devotedly, 
Craig."  Who's  Craig?  Do  you  know?  Well,  anyway, 
it's  from  Boston.  I  don't  see  anything  the  matter  with 
that.  She'll  meet  him  O  K  since  she  got  that  train. 
(Goes  to  stairway)  Oh,  Mother!  It's  all  right!  That 
telegram  was  from  Boston,  you  know.  (Waits  a  moment; 
then  starts  up  the  stairs)  Say,  Mother!  What's  the 
matter?  Ain't  you  goin'  to  have  any  supper? 

BESS  (staring  down  at  the  forgotten  flowers,  and  speaking  a  lou 
frightened  voice).  She  —  didn't  take  —  my  lilacs. 

CURTAIN 


THE  LAMP  AND  THE  BELL 

EDNA  ST.  VINCENT  MILLAY 

EDNA  ST.  VINCENT  MILLAY  was  born  February  22,  1892, 
at  Rockland,  Maine.  After  a  childhood  spent  almost  entirely 
in  New  England,  she  attended  Vassar  College,  graduating 
in  1917.  Since  that  time  she  has  lived  in  New  York  City. 

Miss  Millay's  chief  fame  is  as  a  poet.  Her  play  "Aria  da 
Capo,"  produced  by  the  Provincetown  Players,  is  probably 
one  of  the  finest  short  plays  written  by  an  American.  The 
"Lamp  and  the  Bell"  (included  in  this  volume)  and  the 
one-act  pieces  "The  Princess  Marries  the  Page"  and  "Two 
Slatterns  and  a  King"  constitute  her  contributions  to  the 
theatre. 


THE  LAMP  AND  THE  BELL 

A  DRAMA  IN  FIVE  ACTS 


BY  EDNA  ST.  VINCENT  MILLAY 


COPYBIOHT,  1922,  BT  FBAHK  SHAT. 

All  rightt  reserved 

No  performance  of  this  play,  either  amateur  or  professional,  may  be  given  except  by 
special  arrangement  with  Frank  Shay,  4  Christopher  Street,  New  York  City. 


Written  on  the  occasion  of  the  Fiftieth  Anniversary  of  the 
Founding  of  the  Vassar  College  Alumnae  Association. 

Dedicated  to  "1917" 

Original  Cast 

LORENZO,  King  of  Fiori    .      .      .Julia  Lovejoy  Cuniberti  '11 
MARIO,  King  of  Lagoverde    .      .  Valeria  Knapp  '20 
GUIDO,  Duke  of  Versilia,  ille 
gitimate  nephew  to  Lorenzo   .  Louisa  Brook  Jones  '07 


GIOVANNI 
LUIGI 
ANSELMO 
RAFFAELE 


'#*     •  .  .Katherine  Jones  '20 

Gentlemen  .Muriel  Izard  '17 
at  the  court       .  Lucia  Cole  Waram  '01 

of  Lorenzo  .  .  Eleanor  Kissam  '20 


FIDELIO,  Jester  at  the  court  of 

Lorenzo Geneva  Harrison  '20 

GIUSEPPE,  Agent  for  the  Duke's 

estates Eleanor   Fatman   Morgen- 

thau  '13 

CESCO  \  Townsmen  .  .  Gertrude  Taylor  Watkins  '07 
HORATIO  J  of  Fiori  .  .  .  Lucille  Stimson  Harvey  '09 
BEPPO,  a  little  boy,  son  to 

GIULIANA Marcelle     Furman     New- 
burg  '19 
RIGO,  little  boy,  son  to  Leonora .  Ruth  Delepenha  '17 

CLERK .      .  Lucy  Madeira  Wing  '96 

MESSENGER Esther  Saville  Davis  '06 

OCTAVIA,  Lorenzo's  second  Wife  .  Montgomery  Cooper  '09 
BEATRICE,        "Rose-Red," 

Daughter   to   Lorenzo   by   a 

former  marriage       ....  Clifford  Sellars  '21 
BIANCA,      "Sno  w- White," 

Daughter   to    Octavia   by   a 

former  marriage       ....  Lois  Duffle  '20 


LAURA 
CARLOTTA 

FRANCESCA 

VIOLA 

LILJNA 

LELA 

ARIANNA 

CLAUDIA 

CLARA 


Ladies  at 
the  court  of 
Lorenzo 


.  Frances  Stout  Kellman  '17 
.  Kathleen     Millay     Young 

ex-'21 

.Dorothy  Comstock  '19 
.Lillian  White  '18 
.Caroline  Goodrich  '16 
.Sylvia  Brockway  '20 
.Margaret  Hughes  '18 
.Janet  Lane  '18 
.  Jeanette  Baker  '18 
.  Ellen  Hasbrouck  '15 


LUCIA 

GRAZIA,  Nurse  to  Beatrice  and 

Bianca Eleanor  Ray  Broeniman  '99 

GIULIETTA,  Servant  to  Bianca    .Virginia  Archibold  '17 


"LITTLE  SNOW-WHITE" 
"LITTLE  ROSE-RED"  . 
LEONORA 
GIULIANA 


CLARA 

GlOVANITTA 

ANNA 
EUGENIA 


Women 
of  Fiori 


.  Gretchen  Tonks 

.  Joy  Macracken  '36 

.  Catherine  Ban*  '20 

.  Mabel  Hastings  Humpstone 

'94 

.Olive  Remington  '19 
.  Caroline  Curtis  Johnson  '83 
.Frances  Haldeman  Sidwell 

'84 
.  Helen  Hoy  Greeley  '99 


ELEANORA)  little  girls,  daughters 
LUISA         )  to  Leonora 
GILDA,   a   little   girl,    sister   to 


Ruth  Benedict  '20 
.Maiserie  MacCracken  '31 
Edith  Ward 


Beppo      

ADELINA,  another  little  girl 

NURSE 

PIERROT 

HARLEQUIN 

PANTALOON 

POLICHINELLO 
COLOMBINE 

Courtiers,  Ladies-in-waiting,  Soldiers,  Pages,  Musicians, 
Towns-people,  Children 


Strolling 
players 


THE  LAMP  AND  THE  BELL 
PROLOGUE 

[Anselmo  and  Luigi] 

ANSELMO.  What  think  you,  —  lies  there  any  truth 

in  the  tale 

The  King  will  wed  again? 
LUIGI.  Why  not,  Anselmo? 

A  king  is  no  less  lonely  than  a  collier 

When  his  wife  dies.    And  his  young  daughter  there, 

For  all  her  being  a  princess,  is  no  less 

A  motherless  child,  and  cries  herself  to  sleep 

Night  after  night,  as  noisily  as  any, 

You  may  be  sure. 
ANSELMO.  A  motherless  child  loves  not, 

They  say,  the  second  mother.     Though  the  King 

May  find  him  comfort  in  another  face,  — 

As  it  is  well  he  should  —  the  child,  I  fancy, 

Is  not  so  lonely  as  she  is  distraught 

With  grief  for  the  dead  Queen,  and  will  not  lightly 

Be  parted  from  her  tears. 
LUIGI.  If  tales  be  true, 

The  woman  hath  a  daughter,  near  the  age 

Of  his,  will  be  a  playmate  for  the  Princess. 

CURTAIN 

ACT  I 

SCENE  1 

A  garden  of  the  palace  at  Fiori;  four  years  later. 

Discovered  seated  Laura,  Francesca  and  Fidelio,  Laura  em 
broidering,  Fidelio  strumming  his  flute,  Francesca  lost  in  thought. 
LAURA.  You  —  Fool !  If  there  be  two  chords  to  your  lute, 

Give  us  the  other  for  a  time ! 


274  THE  LAMP  AND  THE  BELL 

FRANCESCA.  And  yet,  Laura, 

I  somewhat  fancied  that  soft  sound  he  made. 

'Twas  all  on  the  same  tone,  —  but  'twas  a  sweet  tone. 
LAURA.     'Tis  like  you.     As  for  myself,  let  music  change 

From  time  to  time,  or  have  done  altogether 

Sing  us  the  song,  Fidelio,  that  you  made 

Last  night,  —  a  song  of  flowers,  and  fair  skies, 

And  nightingales,  and  love. 
FIDELIO.  I  know  the  song. 

It  is  a  song  of  winter. 
LAURA.  How  is  that? 

FIDELIO.     Because  it  is  a  song  of  summer  set 

To  a  sad  tune. 
FRANCESCA  (sadly) .   Ah,  well,  —  so  that  it  be  not 

A  song  of  autumn,  I  can  bear  to  hear  it. 
LAURA.     In  any  case,  music.     I  am  in  a  mood  for  music. 

I  am  in  a  mood  where  if  something  be  not  done 

To  startle  me,  I  shall  confess  my  sins. 

[Enter  Carlotta. 

CARLOTTA.     Ha !     I  will  have  that  woman  yet  by  the  hair ! 
LAURA.     What  woman,  pray,  Carlotta? 
CARLOTTA.  Ho!    What  woman! 

Who  but  that  scullery-wench,  that  onion-monger, 

That  slatternly,  pale  bakeress,  that  foul  witch, 

That  coroneted  Fishwife  of  Fiori, 

Her  Majesty,  the  Queen! 
FRANCESCA.  Hush  —  hush  —  Carlotta ! 

You  could  be  put  to  death  for  less  than  that ! 
CARLOTTA.     Not  I,  my  duck.     When  I  am  put  to  death 

'Twill  be  for  more !     Oh,  I  will  have  her  yet 

By  the  hair !     (For  the  first  time  noticing  Fidelio) 
Fidelio,  if  you  breathe  one  word 

Of  this,  I  will  scratch  the  Princess  into  ribbons, 

Whom  you  love  better  than  your  wit. 
FIDELIO.  I'  faith, 

I  did  but  hear  you  say  you  are  a  fishwife, 

And  all  the  world  knows  that. 


THE  LAMP  AND  THE  BELL  275 

LAURA.  Fear  not,  Carlotta, 

He  is  as  dumb  as  a  prophet.     Every  second  word 
He  utters,  eats  the  one  before  it.     Speak, 
But  softly. 

CARLOTTA.         Nay,  'tis  nothing.  —  Nay,  by  my  head, 
It  is  a  townful!     'Tis  the  way  she  has 
Of  saying  "That  should  be  done  like  this,  and  this 
Like  that"!     The  woman  stirs  me  to  that  point 
I  feel  like  a  carrot  in  a  stew,  —  I  boil  so 
I  bump  the  kettle  on  all  sides ! 

LAURA.  My  dear, 

Were  you  as  plump  as  I  you  would  not  dare 
Become  so  angry.     It  would  make  your  stays  creak. 

CARLOTTA.     Well,  I  am  done.     Fidelio,  play  me  a  dirge 
To  put  me  in  good  spirits.     Merry  music 
Is  sure  to  make  me  sad. 

(Fidelio  plays.     Pause). 

'Tis  curious 

A  woman  like  her  should  have  a  child  like  that  — 

So  gentle  and  so  pretty-mannered.     Faith,  — 
FIDELIO.     Hush!    Hush!    Here  come  the  prettiest  pair  of 
birds 

That  ever  sat  together  on  a  bough  so  close 

You  could  not  see  the  sky  between.     How  now, 

Snow- White  and  Rose-Red !    Are  you  reconciled 

One  to  another? 

[Enter  Beatrice  and  Bianca,  with  their  arms  about  each  other. 
BIANCA.  Reconciled,  Fidelio? 

We  had  not  quarreled ! 

[Laughter  from  Fidelio  and  the  ladies. 

BEATRICE.  Do  not  listen  to  him, 

Bianca,  'tis  but  the  jingling  of  his  bells. 

Fidelio,  Do  you  make  a  better  jest  than  that 

At  once,  or  have  the  clappers  cut  from  them. 
FIDELIO.     Alas,  alas,  —  all  the  good  jests  are  made. 

I  made  them  yesterday. 


276  THE  LAMP  AND  THE  BELL 

CARLOTTA.  If  that  be  true, 

You  would  best  become  a  wise  man  for  a  time, 
My  friend,  —  there  are  plenty   of  wise   words  not  yet 
said! 

FIDELIO.     I  shall  say  them  all  to-morrow. 

LAURA.  If  you  do, 

You  will  be  stoned  to  death. 

FIDELIO.  Not  I.     No  one 

Will  hear  me.  —  Well,  I  am  off.  —  I  know  an  old  man 
Who  does  not  know  the  road  runs  past  his  house; 
And  yet  his  bees  make  honey. 

[Exit  Fidelio. 

CABLOTTA  (looking  after  him).          'Tis  the  one  wise  fool 
We  have  among  us. 

[Enter  Grazia. 

GRAZIA.  Oh,  here  you  are,  my  ducklings ! 

Always  together,  like  a  beggar  and  a  flea ! 

I  looked  for  you  at  dinner-time;  I  forget  now 

What  for;  but  then  'twas  a  matter  of  more  weight 

Than  laying  siege  to  a  city,  —  la,  how  time 

Does  carry  one  on !    An  hour  is  like  an  ocean, 

The  way  it  separates  you  from  yourself !  — 

(To  Bianco,  and  Beatrice)    What  do  you  find  to  talk  about 

all  day? 

BEATRICE.     We  do  not  talk  all  day. 
CARLOTTA.  Nay,  'tis  you,  Grazia, 

That  talk  all  day. 

BEATRICE.  We  ride,  and  play  at  tennis. 

BIANCA.     'Tis  you  that  ride,  Beatrice.     I  but  on  a  heaving 

hill,  and  strive  my  best  to  stick  there. 
GRAZIA.     I'  faith,  I  have  seen  you  going  forth,— you  sidewise 

aslant  your  pretty  palfrey;  and  Her  Highness,  as  God's 

my  judge,  astride  the  devil  himself. 
BEATRICE.     What,  Cupid?  —  La,  he's  gentle  as  a  kitten! 

Though  he's  a  little  young,  'tis  true,  not  settled  yet 

In  his  mind. 


THE  LAMP  AND  THE  BELL  277 

LAURA.  As  to  his  mind,  'twere  a  small  matter, 

Were  he  a  bit  more  settled  in  his  legs ! 
GRAZIA.     What  did  I  come  here  for?  —  I  must  go  back 

To  where  I  started,  and  think  of  it  again ! 

[Exit  Grazia. 

CARLOTTA  (calling  after  her).     Are  you  sure  that  you  re 
member  where  you  started? 

The  woman  hath  a  head  like  a  sieve. 

LAURA.  And  yet, 

You  may  be  sure  'tis  nothing  more  than  the  thimble 

Of  the  matter  she's  forgotten.     I  never  knew  her 

Mislay  the  thread  or  the  needle  of  a  thing. 
BIANCA.     We  must  study  now,  Beatrice,  we  indeed  must. 

We  have  not  opened  a  book  since  yesterday. 
LAURA.     La,  as  for  me,  I  have  not  opened  a  book 

Since  yesteryear,  —  I'd  liefer  open  a  vein! 
CARLOTTA.    Lessons,  —  troth,  I  remember  well  those  lessons. 

As  for  what  I  learned,  —  troth,  that's  a  different  matter. 
FRANCESCA.     'Tis  curious;  the  things  that  one  remembers 

Are  foolish  things.     One  does  not  know  at  all 

Why  one  remembers  them.     There  was  a  blackbird 

With  a  broken  foot  somebody  found  and  tamed 

And  named  Euripides !  —  I  can  see  it  now. 
CARLOTTA.     Some  of  the  silly  rhymes  we  used  to  write 

In  the  margins  of  our  books,  I  still  remember ! 
LAURA.     And  eating  sweets  behind  the  covers  of  them ! 
FRANCESCA.     And  faces  —  faces  —  faces  —  and  a  little  game 

We  used  to  play,  all  marching  in  a  row 

And  singing !  —  I  wish  I  were  a  child  again. 
BEATRICE.    You  are  not  old,  Francesca.    You  are  very  young. 

And  very  beautiful ! 
FRANCESCA.  I  have  been  beautiful 

Too  many  years  to  be  so  very  young. 
CARLOTTA.     How  now,  Francesca!     Would  you  have  it  said 

You  are  enamoured  of  some  beardless  youth, 

That  so  you  see  the  wrinkles  suddenly? 

Have  done!    Have  done! 


278  THE  LAMP  AND  THE  BELL 

BIANCA.  Where  shall  we  study,  Bice? 

BEATRICE.     Indoors.     I  cannot  study  out  of  doors. 

[Exeunt  Beatrice  and  Bianca. 
LAURA.     I  vow  I  never  knew  a  pair  of  lovers 

More  constant  than  those  two. 
CARLOTTA.  A  pair  of  lovers? 

Marry,  I  find  your  figure  lacking  force ! 

Since  when  were  lovers  true? 
FRANCESCA.  Oh,  peace,  Carlotta! 

You  bear  too  sharp  a  weapon  against  the  world,  — 

A  split  tongue  full  of  poison,  in  a  head 

That  darts  at  every  heel !  —  I'm  going  in. 

[Exit  Francesca. 
LAURA.     You  should  not  say  such  things  when  she  is  with  us, 

Carlotta. 

CARLOTTA.       Is  the  woman  in  love? 
LAURA.  In  love! 

She  is  so  far  gone  she  does  not  know  which  way 

To  sail,  —  all  shores  are  equally  out  of  sight. 

[Exeunt  Laura  and  Carlotta. 

Music  off  stage.     Enter  Fidelio,  singing. 
FIDELIO.     "What  was  I  doing  when  the  moon  stood  above? 

What  did  I  do?     What  did  I  do? 

I  lied  to  a  lady  that  had  given  me  her  love,  — 

I  swore  to  be  true!     I  swore  to  be  true!" 

(He  picks  up  from  the  grass  a  white  scarf  which  Beatrice  was 

wearing,  and  which  slipped  from  her  shoulders  unnoticed  as 

she  went  out) 

My  mistress! 

(He  thrusts  the  scarf  under  his  cloak  and  continues  his  song, 
just  as  Guido  enters  from  another  direction) 

"And  what  was  I  doing  when  the  sun  stood  above?     What 

did  I  do?    What  did  I  do?— " 

GUIDO.  By  my  sacred  word,  Fidelio, 

I  do  not  like  your  song. 


THE  LAMP  AND   THE   BELL  279 

FIDELIO.  Faith,  and  small  wonder !  — 

It  is  a  song  that  sets  the  evil  eye 

To  staring  in  upon  itself. 
GUIDO  (stopping  in  his  walk).     What  mean  you 

By  that,  my  throaty  friend? 
FIDELIO.  I  mean  to  say 

That,  taking  it  all  in  all  and  by  and  large, 

You  have  no  ear  for  music. 
GUIDO.  I  have  no  ear 

For  yours,  but  it  is  possible  Apollo 

Had  a  better  tenor.     I  never  heard  him  sing. 
FIDELIO.     Nay,  and  how  could  you?  —  He  died  when  you 

were  born! 

GUIDO.     He  died,  that  is,  in  giving  birth  to  me? 
FIDELIO.    Aye,  if  you  like,  —  you  bear  as  much  resemblance 

To  him  as  to  your  mother's  husband,  surely. 
GUIDO.     Take  care,  Fidelio! 
FIDELIO  (lightly).  So!    Then  it  angers  you 

Apollo  should  be  deemed  your  sire !    I  told  you  (sadly) 

You  have  no  ear  for  music ! 
GUIDO.  You  are  a  sly  fool, 

My  merry  friend.     What  hide  you  under  the  cloak? 
FIDELIO.     Why,  'tis  a  little  patch  of  snow  the  sun 

Would  lay  too  hot  a  hand  on. 
GUIDO.  By  my  life,  — 

And  what  are  you  that  you  can  keep  the  sun 

From  shining  where  it  will? 
FIDELIO.  Why,  by  your  life,  — 

And  a  foul  oath  it  is !  —  why,  by  your  life, 

I  am  a  cloud,  —  that  is  an  easy  riddle. 


SCENE 


A  garden  with  a  fountain,  at  Fiori.     Beatrice  and  Bianca 
sitting  side  by  side  on  a  low  step.     Evening. 

BEATRICE.     How  beautiful  it  is  to  sit  like  this, 

Snow- White.  —  to  think  of  much,  and  to  say  little. 


280  THE  LAMP  AND  THE  BELL 

BIANCA.     Ay,  it  is  beautiful.     I  shall  remember 
All  my  life  long  these  evenings  that  we  spent 
Sitting  just  here,  thinking  together.     (Pause)    Rose-Reo^ 
It  is  four  years  to-day  since  first  we  met. 
Did  you  know  that? 

BEATRICE,  Nay,  is  it? 

BIANCA.  Four  years  to-day. 

I  liked  you  from  the  moment  that  I  saw  you, 
Beatrice! 

BEATRICE.       I  you,  Bianca.     From  the  very  moment ! 
I  thought  you  were  the  prettiest  little  girl 
That  I  had  ever  seen. 

BIANCA.  I  was  afraid 

Of  you,  a  little,  at  first,  —  you  were  a  Princess, 
You  see.     But  you  explained  that  being  a  Princess 
Was  much  the  same  as  anything  else.     'Twas  nice, 
You  said,  when  people  were  nice,  and  when  they  were  not 

nice 

'Twas  hateful,  just  the  same  as  everything  else. 
And  then  I  saw  your  dolls,  and  they  had  noses 
All  scratched,  and  wigs  all  matted,  just  like  mine, 
Which  reassured  me  even  more !  —  I  still,  though, 
Think  of  you  as  a  Princess;  the  way  you  do  things 
Is  much  more  wonderful  than  the  way  I  do  them !  — 
The  way  you  speak  to  the  servants,  even  the  way 
You  pick  up  something  that  you  drop. 

BEATRICE.  YOU  gOOSe! 

'Tis  not  because  I'm  a  princess  you  feel  that  way  — 
I've  always  thought  the  same  thing  about  you !  — 
The  way  you  draw  your  gloves  on  is  to  me 
More  marvelous  than  the  way  the  sun  comes  up! 

(They  both  burst  out  laughing) 
Oh,  lud,  —  how  droll  we  are ! 
BIANCA.  Oh,  I  shall  die 

Of  laughing !     Think  you  any  one  else,  Rose-Red, 
Was  ever  half  so  silly? 


THE   LAMP  AND  THE  BELL  281 

BEATRICE.  I  dare  wager 

There  be  a  thousand,  in  this  realm  alone, 

Some  even  sillier! 
BIANCA.  Here  comes  Fidelio! 

[Enter  Fidelio. 
BEATRICE.     Fidelio,  sing  to  us,  —  there  is  no  nightingale 

Abroad  to-night,  save  you.     And  the  night  cries 

For  music ! 

BIANCA.  Sing,  Fidelio! 

FIDELIO.  I  have  no  thorn 

To  lean  my  breast  on.     I've  been  happy  all  day, 

And  happiness  ever  made  a  crow  of  me. 
BEATRICE.     Sing,  none  the  less,  —  unless  you  have  a  cold, 

Which  is  a  singer's  only  rock  of  refuge. 

You  have  no  cold,  or  you  would  not  be  happy. 

So  sing. 
FIDELIO  (singing).     "Oh,  little  rose-tree,  bloom! 

Summer  is  nearly  over. 

The  dahlias  bleed  and  the  phlox  is  seed, 

Nothing's  left  of  the  clover, 
And  the  path  of  the  poppy  no  one  knows,  — 
I  would  blossom  if  I  were  a  rose! 

Summer  for  all  your  guile 

Will  brown  in  a  week  to  autumn, 
And  launched  leaves  throw  a  shadow  below 

Over  the  brook's  clear  bottom, 
And  the  chariest  bud  the  year  can  boast 
Be  brought  to  bloom  by  the  chastening  frost ! 
Oh,  little  rose-tree,  bloom!" 
[As  he  finishes  the  song  Fidelio  goes  out,  softly  strumming 
the  last  chords.     Bianca  and  Beatrice  sit  quite  still  for  a 
moment. 

BIANCA.     Do  you  know  what  I  am  thinking,  Bice? 
BEATRICE.     You're  wondering  where  we'll  be  ten  years  from 

now, 
Or  something  of  that  nature. 


THE  LAMP  AND  THE   BELL 


BIANCA.  Ay,  I  was  wondering 

Which  would  be  married  first,  and  go  away, 

And  would  we  still  be  friends. 
BEATRICE.  Oh,  do  you  doubt  it, 

Snow-White? 
BIANCA.  Nay,  nay,  —  I  doubt  it  not,  my  dear,  — 

But  I  was  wondering.     I  am  suddenly  sad, 

I  know  not  why.     I  do  not  wish  to  leave  you 

Ever. 
BEATRICE.        I  know.     I  cannot  bear  to  think 

Of  parting.    We  have  been  happy  these  four  years 

Together,  have  we  not? 
BIANCA.  Oh,  Beatrice! 

[She  weeps. 
BEATRICE.    Nay,  do  not  weep  !  —  Come,  you  must  go  to  bed. 

You  are  tired  to-night.     We  rode  too  far  to-day. 

(She  draws  Biancas  head  down  to  her  shoulder) 

Oh,  you  are  tired,  tired,  you  are  very  tired. 

You  must  be  rocked  to  sleep,  and  tucked  in  bed, 

And  have  your  eyelids  kissed  to  make  you  dream 

Of  fairies  !     Come,  dear,  come. 
BIANCA.  Oh,  I  do  love  you, 

Rose-Red  !    You  are  so  sweet  !     Oh,  I  do  love  you 

So  much  !  —  so  much  !     I  never  loved  any  one 

The  way  that  I  love  you  !    There  is  nobody 

In  all  the  world  so  wonderful  as  you  ! 

[She  throws  her  arms  about  Beatrice  and  clings  to  her. 

SCENE  3 

A  room  in  the  palace  at  Fiori.     Lorenzo  and  Beatrice  playing 
chess.     Twilight. 
LORENZO.     You'll  not  be  able  to  get  out  of  that, 

I  think,  my  girl,  with  both  your  castles  gone. 
BEATRICE.     Be  not  so  sure  !  —  I  have  a  horse  still,  father, 

And  in  a  strong  position  :  if  I  move  him  here, 

You  lose  your  bishop;  and  if  you  take  my  bishop, 

You  lose  your  queen. 


THE  LAMP  AND  THE  BELL  283 

LORENZO.  True,  but  with  my  two  rooks 

Set  here,  where  I  can  push  them  back  and  forth, 

My  king  is  safe  till  worms  come  in  and  eat  him. 
BEATRICE.     What  say  you  then  to  this?  —  Will  you  take  this 
pawn, 

Or  will  you  not? 

LORENZO  (studying  the  board).     Od's  bones !  —  where  did  that 
come  from? 

[Enter  Octavia. 
OCTAVIA.     La,  would  you  lose  your  eyesight,  both  of  you?  — 

Fumbling  about  those  chessmen  in  the  dark? 

You,  Beatrice,  at  least,  should  have  more  wit ! 
LORENZO.     "At  least "  —  hm !  —    Did  you  hear  her  say,  " at 
least," 

Bice,  my  daughter? 
BEATRICE.  Ay.    But  it  is  true 

The  twilight  comes  before  one  knows  it. 
LORENZO.  Ay. 

'Tis  true,  but  unimportant.     Nevertheless, 

I  am  a  tractable  old  fellow.  —  Look  you, 

I  will  but  stay  to  map  the  lay  of  the  pieces 

Upon  this  bit  of  letter.     'Tis  from  a  king 

Who  could  not  tell  the  bishop  from  the  board,  — 

And  yet  went  blind  at  forty.  —  A  little  chess 

By  twilight,  mark  you,  and  all  might  have  been  well. 

[Enter  Bianca. 

BIANCA.     Oh,  —  I've  been  looking  everywhere  for  you? 
OCTAVIA  (drily).     For  me? 
BIANCA.  Nay,  mother,  —  for  Beatrice.     Bice, 

The  rose  is  out  at  last  upon  that  bush 

That  never  blossomed  before,  —  and  it  is  white 

As  linen,  just  as  I  said  'twould  be! 
BEATRICE.  Why,  the  bud 

Was  redder  than  a  radish ! 
BIANCA.  Ay,  I  know. 

But  the  blossom's  white,  pure  white.     Come  out  and  see ! 

(Politely)     Would  you  like  to  see  it,  mother? 


284  THE  LAMP  AND   THE   BELL 

OCTAVIA.  Nay,  not  now,  child. 

Some  other  time. 
BEATRICE.  Father,  we'll  end  the  game 

To-morrow;  and  do  you  not  be  scheming  at  it 

All  night! 

LORENZO.         Nay,  I  will  not  unfold  the  chart. 
BEATRICE.     But  you  remember  well  enough  without; 

Promise  me  not  to  think  of  it. 
^LORENZO.  I*  faith, 

You  are  a  desperate  woman.     Ay,  I  promise. 

[Exeunt  Bianca  and  Beatrice.     Octavia  seats  herself.     Pause. 

OCTAVIA.     I  tell  you,  as  I've  told  you  often  before, 
Lorenzo,  'tis  not  good  for  two  young  girls 
To  be  so  much  together ! 

LORENZO.  As  you  say, 

Octavia.     For  myself,  I  must  confess 
It  seems  a  natural  thing,  enough,  that  youth 
Should    seek    out    youth.       And    if    they    are    better 

pleased 

Talking  together  than  listening  to  us, 
I  find  it  not  unnatural.     What  have  we 
To  say  to  children?  —  They  are  as  different 
From  older  folk  as  fairies  are  from  them. 

OCTAVIA.     "Talking  together,"  Lorenzo!    What  have  they 
To  talk  about,  save  things  they  might  much  better 
Leave  undiscussed?  —  you  know  what  I  mean,  —  lovers, 
And  marriage,  and  all  that  —  if  that  be  all ! 
One  never  knows  —  it  is  impossible 
To  hear  what  they  are  saying;  they  either  speak 
In  whispers,  or  burst  out  in  fits  of  laughter 
At  some  incredible  nonsense.     There  is  nothing 
So  silly  as  young  girls  at  just  that  age.  — 
At  just  Bianca's  age,  that  is  to  say. 
As  for  the  other,  —  as  for  Beatrice, 
She's  older  than  Bianca,  and  I'll  not  have  her 
Putting  ideas  into  my  daughter's  head ! 


THE  LAMP  AND  THE   BELL  285 

LORENZO.     Fear  not,  my  love.     Your  daughter's  head  will 
doubtless, 

In  its  good  time,  put  up  its  pretty  hair, 
Chatter,  fall  dumb,  go  moping  in  the  rain, 
Be  turned  by  flattery,  be  bowed  with  weeping, 
Grow  gray,  and  shake  with  palsy  over  a  staff,  — 
All  this,  my  love,  as  empty  of  ideas 
As  even  the  fondest  mother's  heart  could  wish. 

OCTAVIA.     You  mock  me,  sir? 

LORENZO.  I  am  but  musing  aloud, 

As  is  my  fashion.  —  And  indeed,  my  dear, 
What  is  the  harm  in  lovers-and-all-that 
That  virtuous  maidens  may  not  pass  the  time 
With  pretty  tales  about  them?  —  After  all, 
Were  it  not  for  the  years  of  looking  forward  to  it 
And  looking  back  upon  it,  love  would  be 
Only  the  commonest  bird-song  in  the  hedge,  — 
And  men  would  have  more  time  to  think,  —  and  less 
To  think  about. 

OCTAVIA.  That  may  be.     But  young  girls 

Should  not  be  left  alone  too  much  together. 
They  grow  too  much  attached.     They  grow  to  feel 
They  cannot  breathe  apart.     It  is  unhealthy. 

LORENZO.     It  may  be  true.     But  as  for  me,  whom  youth 
Abandoned  long  ago,  I  look  on  youth 
As  something  fresh  and  sweet,  like  a  young  green  tree, 
Though  the  wind  bend  it  double.  —  'Tis  you,  'tis  I, 
'Tis  middle  age  the  fungus  settles  on. 

OCTAVIA.     Your  head  is  full  of  images.     You  have 
No  answers.     I  shall  do  as  I  spoke  of  doing, 
And  separate  them  for  a  little  while, 
Six  months,  maybe  a  year.     I  shall  send  Bianca 
Away  within  a  fortnight.     That  will  cure  them. 
I  know.     I  know.     Such  friendships  do  not  last. 

CURTAIN 


286  THE  LAMP  AND  THE  BELL 

ACT  II 

SCENE  1  —  Four  months  later 

A  garden,  near  the  palace  at  Fiori.  The  young  Duke 
Guido  is  discovered  standing  with  one  foot  resting  on  a  garden 
bench,  looking  of,  lost  in  thought.  Enter  Giovanni. 

GIOVANNI.     That  is  a  merry  face  you  wear,  my  Guido! 

Now  that  the  young  King  Mario  visits  the  court 

And  walks  all  morning  in  the  woods  with  the  Princess, 

Or  gives  her  fencing  lessons,  —  upon  my  word, 

You  are  as  gay  as  a  gallows ! 
GUIDO.  She  is  never 

Alone  with  him.     Laura  —  Carlotta  —  some  one 

Is  always  there. 
GIOVANNI.  Ah  —  ah  —  but  even  so, 

No  matter  who  is  there,  I  tell  you,  lovers 

Are  always  alone! 
GUIDO.  Why  do  you  say  these  things, 

Giovanni? 
GIOVANNI.         Because  I  love  you,  you  lean  wolf, 

And  love  to  watch  you  snuff  the  air.     My  friend, 

There  was  a  time  I  thought  it  all  ambition 

With  you,  a  secret  itching  to  be  king  — 

And  not  so  secret,  either  —  an  open  plot 

To  marry  a  girl  who  will  be  Queen  some  morning. 

But  now  at  times  I  wonder.     You -have  a  look 

As  of  a  man  that's  nightly  gnawed  by  rats, 

The  very  visage  of  a  man  in  love. 

Is  it  not  so? 
GUIDO.  I  do  not  know,  Giovanni. 

I  know  I  have  a  passion  in  my  stomach 

So  bitter  I  can  taste  it  on  my  tongue. 

She  hates  me.     And  her  hatred  draws  me  to  her 

As  the  moon  draws  the  tide. 
GIOVANNI.  You  are  like  a  cat  — 

There  never  was  a  woman  yet  that  feared  you 

And  shunned  you,  but  you  leapt  upon  her  shoulder ! 


THE  LAMP  AND  THE  BELL  287 

Well,  I'll  be  off.     The  prettiest  girl  in  Fiori,  — 

Unless  it  be  Her  Highness,  waits  for  me 

By  a  fountain.     All  day  long  she  sells  blue  plums, 

And  in  the  evening  what  she  has  left  of  them 

She  gives  to  me!    You  should  love  simply,  Guido, 

As  I  do. 

[Exit  Giovanni. 

Guido  sits  on  the  bench  and  drops  his  head  in  his  hand. 

Enter  Francesca. 

FRANCESCA  (softly).    Guido!    Guido! 

GUIDO.  Who  calls  me? 

FRANCESCA.       Guido ! 

GUIDO.   Francesca !  Why  do  you  follow  me  here  ?  —  You  know 

I  do  not  wish  to  see  you ! 
FRANCESCA.  Do  not  be  angry. 

JTis  half  a  week  since  you  have  spoken  to  me, 

And  more  than  a  week  since  you  have  so  much  as  laid 

Your  hand  upon  my  arm !    And  do  you  think, 

Loving  you  as  I  do,  I  can  do  without  you, 

Forever,  Guido,  and  make  no  sign  at  all? 

I  know  you  said  you  did  not  wish  to  see  me 

Ever  again,  —  but  it  was  only  a  quarrel  — 

And  we  have  quarreled  before! 
GUIDO.  It  was  not  a  quarrel. 

I  am  tired  of  you,  Francesca.     You  are  too  soft. 

You  weep  too  much. 
FRANCESCA.  I  do  not  weep  the  less 

For  having  known  you. 
GUIDO.  So;  —  it  will  save  you  tears,  then, 

To  know  me  less. 
FRANCESCA.  Oh,  Guido,  how  your  face 

Is  changed,  —  I  cannot  think  those  are  the  eyes 

That  looked  into  my  eyes  a  month  ago! 

What's  come  between  us? 
GUIDO.  Nothing  has  come  between  us. 

It  is  the  simple  snapping  of  a  string 

Too  often  played  upon. 


288  THE  LAMP  AND  THE  BELL 

FRANCESCA.  Ah !  —  but  I  know 

Who  snapped  it !     It  will  do  you  little  good 

To  look  at  her,  —  she'll  never  look  at  you ! 
GUIDO.     Be  silent  a  moment !  —  Unless  you  would  be  silent 

Longer ! 
FRANCESCA.      Indeed!     I  shall  speak  out  my  mind! 

You  go  beyond  yourself!     There  is  proportion 

Even  in  a  nature  like  my  own,  that's  twisted 

From  too  much  clinging  to  a  crooked  tree ! 

And  this  is  sure :  if  you  no  longer  love  me, 

You  shall  no  longer  strike  me! 
MARIO  (offstage).  Beatrice! 

Wait  for  me!     Wait! 
BEATRICE  (off  stage).         Not  I!     Who  does  not  run 

As  fast  as  I  run,  shall  be  left  behind  me ! 
GUIDO.     They  are   coming  here!      I   do   not   wish   to  see 

them! 
FRANCESCA.     Oh,  Guido! 

[She  follows  him  off.     Exeunt  Guido  and  Francesca. 

Enter  Beatrice,  running,  followed  by  Mario. 
MARIO.  Beatrice,  you  run  like  a  boy ! 

You  whistle  like  a  boy !    And  upon  my  word, 

You  are  the  only  girl  I  ever  played 

At  jousting  with,  that  did  not  hold  her  sword 

As  if  it  were  a  needle!     Which  of  us, 

Think  you,  when  we  are  married,  will  be  King? 
BEATRICE.     When  we  are  married !     Sir,  I'll  have  you  know 

There's  an  ogre  to  be  tamed,  a  gem  to  be  pried 

From  out  a  dragon's  forehead,  and  three  riddles 

To  be  solved,  each  tighter  than  the  last,  before 

A  Princess  may  be  wed ! 
MARIO  Even  by  a  King? 

BEATRICE.     For  Kings  the  rules  are  sterner !  —  One  more 
riddle, 

And  a  mirror  that  will  show  her  always  young. 
MARIO.     And  if  I  do  these  things,  then,  will  you  have  me, 

Rose-Red? 


THE  LAMP  AND  THE  BELL  289 

BEATRICE.          Maybe.     And  if  you  do  not  do  them, 

Maybe.     Come  —  I  will  race  you  to  the  bridge ! 
MARIO  (catching  her  hand) .     Nay,  not  so  fast !  —  Have  you 
no  wish  to  be 

Beside  me,  ever,  that  you  are  forever  running 

Ahead? 
BEATRICE.    Indeed,  if  you  would  have  the  truth 

It  has  come  into  my  mind  more  times  than  once 

It  would  be  sweet  to  be  beside  you  often. 
MARIO.     Rose-Red ! 
BEATRICE.  Come  —  I  will  race  you  to  the  bridge ! 

[Exeunt  Beatrice  and  Mario. 

SCENE  2 

Courtyard  of  the  palace  at  Fiori.  Entire  court  assembled. 
A  band  of  strolling  players,  with  a  little  stage  on  wheels,  are 
doing  a  Harlequinade  pantomime  to  amuse  the  young  King 
Mario,  the  guest  of  honor.  Beatrice  sits  beside  him.  In  this 
scene  the  two  people  who  are  oblivious  to  the  pantomime  are 
Guido  and  Octavia.  Guido  is  apparently  brooding  over  some 
thing.  From  time  to  time  he  looks  at  Beatrice  and  Mario. 

Once,  having  gazed  for  some  moments  at  the  pair,  he  looks  at 
Octavia  and  sees  that  she,  too,  is  looking  at  them,  which  seems 
to  satisfy  him.  The  Queen  does  not  take  her  eyes  from  the  two 
during  the  entire  scene.  Beatrice  and  Mario  do  not  conduct 
themselves  precisely  as  lovers,  but  they  are  very  gay  and  happy 
to  be  in  each  other's  company,  apparently.  Lorenzo  watches 
the  show  with  a  benign,  almost  childish  interest.  Pantomime 
begins. 

GIOVANNI.     You,  Pierrot,  are  you  not  a  little  thick 
For  such  a  sorrowful  fellow? 

PIERROT.  Nay,  indeed! 

Sorrow  may  come  to  all.     And  'tis  amazing 
How  much  a  man  may  live  through  and  keep  fat. 

[Pantomime  continues. 


290  THE  LAMP  AND  THE  BELL 

CARLOTTA.     Ho!    Now  he  stumbles!     Look  you,  Pantaloon, 

If  you  were  not  so  learned  i'  the  head 

You  might  know  better  where  to  put  your  feet ! 
LAURA  (to  Carlotta).     'Tis  curious  how  it  addles  a  man's 

bones 

To  think  too  much. 
CARLOTTA.  Nay,  truth.     Wise  men  were  ever 

Awkward  i*  the  legs. 

[Pantomime  continues. 

RAFFAELE.  Have  at  him,  Polichinello. 

GIOVANNI.     Lay  on!    Lay  on! 

ANSELMO.  Leave  not  a  nail  of  him! 

.GIOVANNI.     Dog!    Would  you  have  him  write  a  book  about 

you? 

LUIGI.     Spit  him  i'  the  liver!     It  is  his  only  organ! 
BEATRICE  (to  Mario).     Nay,  it  is  cruel.     I  cannot  look  at  it. 
MARIO.     It  is  but  play. 
BEATRICE.  Ay,  but  'tis  cruel  play. 

To  be  so  mocked  at!  —  Come,  take  heart,  good  Doctor! 

'Tis  a  noisy  fellow,  but  light  withal !  —  Blow  at  him ! 
GIOVANNI  (to  Guido).     She  has  the  softest  heart  that  ever 

I  saw 

In  a  hard  woman.     It  may  be,  seeing  she  has  pity 

For  one  rogue,  she  has  pity  for  another! 

Mark  you,  my  Guido,  there  is  hope  yet ! 
GUIDO.  Nay, 

There's  not.     I  have  opened  up  my  mind  to  her, 

And  she  will  none  of  me. 
GIOVANNI  (jestingly).  That  was  the  last  thing 

You  should  have  done !  —  Speak,  —  did  she  give  for  answer 

She  loves  the  King? 
GUIDO.  Not  she.     She  gave  for  answer 

She  does  not  love  the  Duke. 

[Pantomime  continues. 

ANSELMO  (to  Colombine).  Ah,  pretty  lady! 

CARLOTTA.     La,  she  is  fickle!     How  she  turns  from  one  face 

To  another  face,  —  and  smiles  into  them  all ! 


THE  LAMP  AND   THE  BELL  291 

FRANCESCA.     Oh,  ay,  but  'tis  the  Pierrot  that  she  loves. 
[Pantomime  continues  and  comes  to  a  close.     All  applaud. 

LUIGI.     Well  done! 

ANSELMO.  Bravo ! 

GIOVANNI.  A  monstrous  lively  play! 

BEATRICE.     Oh,  is  it  over?  —  I  would  it  were  not  over! 

MARIO.     And  yet  it  pleased  you  not ! 

BEATRICE.  When  it  pleased  me  not, 

I  looked  at  you. 

MARIO.  And  when  I  pleased  you  not  —  ? 

BEATRICE.     I  looked  at  Harlequin.     However,  I  saw  him 
But  fleetingly.     Pray,  was  he  dark  or  fair? 

LUIGI.     Laura !  t 

LAURA.  Who  calls?     La,  it  is  only  Luigi ! 

LUIGI.     Laura,  there'll  be  a  moon  to-night. 

LAURA.  I'  faith, 

There  was  a  moon  last  night. 
[She  sighs. 

LUIGI.  At  ten  o'clock, 

Were  I  by  a  certain  gate,  would  you  be  there? 
What  say  you? 

LAURA.  Ay,  —  if  weariness  overtook  me, 

And  I  could  not  get  further! 

CARLOTTA.  La,  'tis  sun-down! 

[In  the  meantime  the  crowd  has  been  breaking  up  and  dis 
persing.  The  curtain  falls  on  the  disappearing  spectators 
and  on  Pierrot  and  his  troupe  packing  up  their  wagon  to  go 
to  the  next  town. 

SCENE  3 

**  Fiori.     A  garden  with  a  fountain.     Evening.     Enter  Octavia 
and  ladies. 

OCTAVIA.     It  would  amuse  me  if  I  had  a  lily 
To  carry  in  my  hand.     You  there,  Carlotta! 
You  have  a  long  arm,  —  plunge  it  in  the  pool 
And  fish  me  forth  a  lily! 


292  THE  LAMP  AND  THE  BELL 

CLAUDIA.  Majesty, 

They  close  at  night. 

OCTAVIA.  Well  —  we  will  open  them. 

CARLOTTA  (going  to  pool  and  scanning  it).     Go  to  —  I  am  not 

a  frog ! 

OCTAVIA.     What  did  you  say? 
ABIANNA.     She  says  she  sees  a  frog,  Your  Majesty. 
FRANCESCA  (aside  to  Carlotta).     You  are  mad!     Can  you  not 

keep  your  tongue  in  your  head? 
CARLOTTA.     Ay,  I  can  keep  it  in  my  cheek.  —  There's  one. 

God  grant  it  have  an  eel  at  the  end  of  it,  — 

I'll  give  the  dame  good  measure. 

[While  the  ladies  are  at  the  pool  enter  Guido. 
GUIDO.  Greeting,  madam! 

OCTAVIA.     Who  greets  me?  —  Ah,    it   is   the   Duke.     Good 

even,  Guido.     You  seek  an  audience  with  me? 
GUIDO.     Nay  —  nay  —  but  if  you  send  away  your  women,  — 

We  shall  be  more  alone. 

OCTAVIA  (after  considering  him  a  moment).    You   may   leave 
me  now, 

Laura,  Francesca  —  all  of  you  —  and  you  would  best  go  in 

At  an  early  hour,  instead  of  walking  the  gardens 

All  night;  I  would  have  you  with  your  wits 

About  you  in  the  morning. 
CARLOTTA  (aside).  Oh,  indeed? 

You  would  best  go  in  yourself,  lest  the  dew  rust  you, 

You  sauce-pan! 

[Exeunt  ladies. 

OCTAVIA.     Now,  my  good  sir,  —  you  may  speak. 
GUIDO  (as  if  by  way  of  conversation).    It  is  a  long  time,  is  it 
not,  your  daughter  — 

Is  absent  from  the  court? 

OCTAVIA.  Why  say  you  that? 

GUIDO.     Why  but  to  pass  the  time,  till  she  returns? 
OCTAVIA.     Nay,  Guido.     That  is  well  enough  for  some, 

But  not  for  me.     I  know  the  slant  of  your  fancy; 

'Tis  not  in  that  direction. 


THE  LAMP  AND  THE   BELL  293 

GUIDO.  Yet  me  thinks 

The  sooner  she  is  back  again  at  court 

The  happier  for  us  both. 

OCTAVIA.  "Us  both?"     What  "both"? 

GUIDO.     You  Madam,  and  myself. 
OCTAVIA.  And  why  for  me? 

GUIDO  (carefully).     Why,  are  you  not  her  mother? 
OCTAVIA.  Hah!     (Pause)     Guido, 

What  festers  in  your  mind?     Do  you  speak  out  now, 

If  you  await  some  aid  from  me. 
GUIDO.  Madam, 

I  have  but  this  to  say:  if  I  were  a  woman 

With  a  marriageable  daughter,  and  a  King  rode  by, 

I'd  have  her  at  the  window. 
OCTAVIA.  So.     I  thought  so. 

(With  an  entire  change  of  manner) 

Guido,  what  think  you,  —  does  she  love  the  King,  — 

I  mean  Lorenzo's  daughter? 

GUIDO.  Ay,  she  loves  him. 

OCTAVIA.     And  loves  he  her? 
GUIDO.  Oh,  ay.     He  loves  the  moon, 

The  wind  in  the  cypress  trees,  his  mother's  portrait 

At  seventeen,  himself,  his  future  children  — 

He  loves  her  well  enough.     But  had  she  blue  eyes 

And  yellow  hair,  and  were  afraid  of  snakes, 

He  yet  might  love  her  more. 
OCTAVIA.  You  think  so,  Guido? 

I  am  content  to  learn  you  of  that  mind. 

There  had  occurred  to  me  —  some  time  ago, 

In  fact  —  a  similar  fancy.     And  already 

My  daughter  is  well  on  her  way  home.  ^^ 

[Exeunt  Guido  and  Octavia. 
•^Music.     Enter  Beatrice  and  Fidelio.     Fidelio  strums  his  lute 

softly  throughout  the  next  conversation,  up  to  the  words  "and 

cease  to  mock  me." 
BEATRICE.  Fidelio, 

Were  you  ever  in  love? 


294  THE  LAMP  AND  THE  BELL 

FIDELIO.  I  was  never  out  of  it. 

BEATRICE.       But  truly? 

FIDELIO.  Well,  I  was  only  out  of  it 

What  time  it  takes  a  man  to  right  himself 

And  once  again  lose  balance.     Ah,  indeed, 

'Tis  good  to  be  in  love.     I  have  often  noticed, 

The  moment  I  fall  out  of  love,  that  moment 

I  catch  a  cold. 

BEATRICE.  Are  you  in  love,  then,  now? 

FIDELIO.     Ay,  to  be  sure. 
BEATRICE.     Oh!     Oh!     With  whom,  Fidelio? 

Tell  me  with  whom! 
FIDELIO.  Why,  marry,  with  yourself,  — 

That    are    the    nearest    to    me,  —  and    by    the    same 
troth, 

The  farthest  away. 
BEATRICE.  Go  to,  Fidelio! 

I  am  in  earnest,  and  you  trifle  with  me 

As  if  I  were  a  child. 

FIDELIO.  Are  you  not  a  child,  then? 

BEATRICE.     Not  any  more. 

FIDELIO.  HOW  SO? 

BEATRICE.  I  am  in  love. 

FIDELIO.     Oh  —  oh  —  oh,  misery,  misery,  misery,  misery ! 
BEATRICE.     Why  do  you  say  that? 
FIDELIO.  Say  what? 

BEATRICE.  "Misery,  misery.*' 

FIDELIO.     It  is  a  song. 

BEATRICE.  A  SOng? 

FIDELIO.  Ay,  'tis  a  love-song. 

Oh,  misery,  misery,  misery,  misery,  oh! 
BEATRICE.     Nay,  sweet  Fidelio,  be  not  so  unkind! 

I  tell  you,  for  the  first  time  in  my  life 

I  am  in  love !     Do  you  be  mannerly  now, 

And  cease  to  mock  me. 
FIDELIO.  What  would  you  have  me  do? 


THE  LAMP  AND  THE  BELL  295 

BEATRICE.     I  would  have  you  shake  your  head,  and  pat  my 

shoulder, 

And  smile  and  say,  "Godspeed." 
FIDELIO  (doing  so  very  tenderly).     Godspeed. 
BEATRICE  (bursting  into  tears).     T  faith  I  do  not  know  if  I  am 

happy  or  sad. 

But  I  am  greatly  moved.     I  would  Bianca 
Were  here.     I  never  lacked  her  near  so  much 
As  to-night  I  do,  although  I  lack  her  always. 
She  is  a  long  time  gone.  —  If  I  tell  you  something, 
Will  you  promise  not  to  tell? 
FIDELIO.  Nay,  I'll  not  promise, 

But  I'll  not  tell? 
BEATRICE.  Fidelio,  I  do  love  so 

The  King  from  Lagoverde !     I  do  so  love  him ! 
FIDELIO.     Godspeed,  Godspeed. 

BEATRICE.  Ay,  it  is  passing  strange; 

Last  week  I  was  a  child,  but  now  I  am  not. 
And  I  begin  my  womanhood  with  weeping; 
I  know  not  why.  —  La,  what  a  fool  I  am ! 
'Tis  over.     Sing  Fidelio. 
FIDELIO.  Would  you  a  gay  song, 

My  Princess? 

BEATRICE.  Ay.  —  And  yet  —  nay,  not  so  gay. 

A  simple  song,  such  as  a  country-boy 
Might  sing  his  country-sweetheart.  —  Is  it  the  moon 
Hath  struck  me,  do  you  think?     I  swear  by  the  moon 
I  am  most  melancholy  soft,  and  most 
Outrageous  sentimental !     Sing,  dear  fool. 
FIDELIO  (singing). 

"Butterflies  are  white  and  blue 
In  this  field  we  wander  through. 
Suffer  me  to  take  your  hand. 
Death  comes  in  a  day  or  two. 
All  the  things  we  ever  knew 
Will  be  ashes  in  that  hour. 


296  THE  LAMP  AND  THE  BELL 

Mark  the  transient  butterfly, 
How  he  hangs  upon  the  flower. 
Suffer  me  to  take  your  hand. 
Suffer  me  to  cherish  you 
Till  the  dawn  is  in  the  sky. 
Whether  I  be  false  or  true, 
Death  comes  in  a  day  or  two." 

CURTAIN 

ACT  III 

•    SCENE  1.     The  following  summer 

A  field  or  meadow  near  Fiori.     As  the  curtain  rises  voices 
are  heard  off-stage  singing  a  bridal  song. 

SONG:  Strew  we  flowers  on  their  pathway! 

Bride  and  bridegroom,  go  you  sweetly. 
There  are  roses  on  your  pathway. 
Bride  and  bridegroom,  go  you  sweetly. 
Sweetly  live  together. 

Enter  Viola,  Lilina,  Lela,  Arianna  and  Claudia,  laden 
with  garlands,  flowering  boughs  and  baskets  of  flowers.  They 
meet  Anselmo  coming  from  another  direction,  also  bearing 
flowers 

VIOLA.     How  beautiful,  Anselmo !    Where  did  you  find  them? 

ANSELMO.     Close  by  the  brook. 

ULINA.  You  gathered  all  there  were? 

ANSELMO.     Not  by  one  hundredth  part. 

LELA.  Nay,  is  it  true? 

We  must  have  more  of  them! 
ARIANNA.  And  are  they  fragrant 

As  well? 
ANSELMO.      Ay,  by  my  heart,  they  are  so  sweet 

I  near  to  fainted  climbing  the  bank  with  them. 

[The  ladies  cluster  about  Anselmo  and  smell  the  flowers. 

LILINA.       Oh ! 

VIOLA.  Ah! 


THE  LAMP   AND  THE  BELL  297 

CLAUDIA.  How  drowsily  sweet ! 

LELA.  Oh,  sweet! 

ARIANNA.  What  fragrance! 

[Enter   Laura    and    Giovanni,  followed    by    Carlotta    and 

Raffaele. 
LAURA.     La,  by  my  lung!     I  am  as  out  of  breath 

As  a  babe  new-born !     Whew !     Let  me  catch  the  air ! 

[She  drops  her  flowers  and  seats  herself  beside  them. 
CARLOTTA   (to  the  younger  ladies  and  Anselmo,  by  way  of 

greeting).     How  hot  the  sun  is  getting! 
ANSELMO.  'Tis  nigh  noon, 

I  think. 

GIOVANNI.     'Tis  noon. 

CLAUDIA.  We  must  be  starting  back. 

LAURA.     Not  till  I  get  my  breath. 
RAFFAELE.  Come,  —  I  will  fan  you. 

[He  fans  her  with  a  branch. 

LAURA.     'Tis    good  —  'tis    very    good  —  oh,    peace  —  oh, 
slumber  — 

Oh,  all  good  things !     You  are  a  proper  youth. 

You  are  a  zephyr.     I  would  have  you  fan  me 

Till  you  fall  dead. 
CARLOTTA.  I  tell  you  when  it  comes 

To  gathering  flowers,  much  is  to  be  said 

For  spreading  sheets  on  the  grass,  —  it  gives  you  less 

The  backache. 

LAURA.  Nobly  uttered,  my  sweet  bird. 

GIOVANNI.     Yet  brides  must  have  bouquets. 
CARLOTTA.  And  sit  at  home, 

Nursing  complexions,  whilst  I  gather  them. 
LILINA  (running  to  Carlotta,  along  with  Lela  and  Viola,  and 

throwing  her  arms  about  her). 

Nay,  out  upon  you  now,  Carlotta !     Cease  now 

To  grumble  so,  —  'tis  such  a  pretty  day ! 
VIOLA.     And  weddings  mean  a  ball! 

And  one  may  dance  all  night 

At  weddings! 


298  THE  LAMP  AND  THE  BELL 

LILINA.  Till  one  needs  must  dance  to  bed, 

Because  one  cannot  walk  there ! 
GIOVANNI.  And  one  eats 

Such  excellent  food! 

ANSELMO.  And  drinks  such  excellent  wine! 

CLAUDIA.     And  seldom  will  you  see  a  bride  and  bridegroom 

More  beautiful  and  gracious,  or  whom  garlands 

Do  more  become. 
GIOVANNI.  'Tis  so,  —  upon  my  sword !  — 

Which  I  neglected  to  bring  with  me  —  'tis  so, 

Upon  Anselmo's  sword ! 
CARLOTTA.  Nay,  look  you,  Laura! 

You  must  not  fall  asleep !     (To  Raffaele)     Have  done,  you 
devil! 

Is  it  a  poppy  that  you  have  there  ?     ( To  Laura)     Look  you, 

We  must  be  starting  back! 

[Laura  rouses,  then  falls  back  again. 
LAURA.  Ay,  that  we  must. 

ARIANNA.     Where  are  the  others? 
ANSELMO.  Scattered  all  about. 

I  will  call  to  them.     Hola !     You  fauns  and  dryads ! 

Where  are  you? 

VOICES.  Here!     Here!     Is  it  time  to  go? 

ANSELMO.     Come  this  way !    We  are  starting  back ! 
VOICES.  We  are  coming! 

We'll  come  in  a  moment !    We  cannot  bear  to  leave 

This  place! 

GIOVANNI    (as  they  enter).      A  thousand   greetings,   lovely 
Clara! 

Lucia,  a  thousand  greetings !    How  now,  Luigi ! 

I  know  you,  man,  despite  this  soft  disguise ! 

You  are  no  flower-girl! 
LUIGI.  I  am  a  draught-horse, 

That's  what  I  am,  for  four  unyielding  women ! 

Were  I  a  flower-girl,  I'd  sell  the  lot 

For  a  bit  of  bread  and  meat  —  I  am  so  hungry 

I  could  eat  a  butterfly! 


THE  LAMP  AND   THE   BELL  299 

CARLOTTA.  What  ho,  Francesca! 

I  have  not  seen  you  since  the  sun  came  up ! 
FRANCESCA.     This  is  not  I,  —  I  shall  not  be  myself 

Till  it  goes  down! 

LELA.  Oh,  la,  what  lovely  lilies ! 

FRANCESCA.     Be  tender  with  them  —  I  risked  my  life  to  get 

them! 

LILINA.     Where  were  they? 
FRANCESCA.  Troth,  I  do  not  know.     I  think 

They  were  in  a  dragon's  mouth. 
LAURA  (suddenly  waking).  Well,  are  we  going? 

[All  laugh. 
LUIGI.     No  one  is  going  that  cannot  go  afoot. 

I  have  enough  to  carry! 
LAURA.  Nay,  take  me  too! 

I  am  a  little  thing.     What  does  it  matter  — 

One  flower  more? 
LUIGI.  You  are  a  thousand  flowers, 

Sweet  Laura,  —  you  are  a  meadow  full  of  them  — 

I'll  bring  a  wagon  for  you. 
CARLOTTA.  Come.     Come  home. 

[In  the  meantime  the  stage  has  been  filling  with  girls  and  men 

bearing  flowers,  a  multitude  of  people,  in  groups  and  couples, 

humming  the  song  very  softly.     As  Carlotta  speaks  several 

more  people  take  up  the  song,  then  finally  the  whole  crowd. 

They  move  off  slowly,  singing. 

SONG.     "Strew  we  flowers  on  their  pathway,"  etc. 

SCENE  2 

Bianca's  boudoir  in  the  palace  at  Fiori.  Bianca,  with  a 
mirror  in  her  hand,  having  her  hair  done  by  a  maid.  Several 
maids  about,  holding  perfume  flasks,  brushes,  and  veils,  articles 
of  apparel  of  one  sort  or  another.  Beatrice  standing  beside  her, 
watching. 

BIANCA.     Look  at  me,  Rose-Red.     Am  I  pretty  enough, 
Think  you,  to  marry  a  King? 


300  THE  LAMP  AND  THE  BELL 

BEATRICE.  You  are  too  pretty. 

There  is  no  justice  in  it.     Marry  a  cobbler 

And  make  a  king  of  him.     It  is  unequal,  — 

Here  is  one  beggarly  boy  king  in  his  own  right, 

And  king  by  right  of  you. 
BIANCA.  Mario  is  not 

A  beggarly  boy!    Nay,  tell  me  truly,  Bice, 

What  do  you  think  of  him? 
BEATRICE.  La,  by  my  soul! 

Have  I  not  told  you  what  I  think  of  him 

A  thousand  times?     He  is  graceful  enough,  I  tell  you, 

And  hath  a  well-shaped  head. 
BIANCA.  Nay,  is  that  all? 

BEATRICE.     Nay,  hands  and  feet  he  hath,  like  any  other. 
BIANCA.     Oh,  out  upon  you  for  a  surly  baggage! 

Why  will  you  tease  me  so?     You  do  not  like  him, 

I  think. 
BEATRICE.     Snow- White!     Forgive  me!     La,  indeed, 

I  was  but  jesting!     By  my  sacred  word, 

These  brides  are  serious  folk. 
BIANCA.  I  could  not  bear 

To  wed  a  man  that  was  displeasing  to  you. 

Loving  him  as  I  do,  I  could  not  choose 

But  wed  him,  if  he  wished  it,  but  'twould  hurt  me 

To  think  he  did  not  please  you. 
BEATRICE.  Let  me,  then, 

Set  your  sweet  heart  at  rest.     You  could  not  find 

In  Christendom  a  man  would  please  me  more. 
BIANCA.     Then  I  am  happy. 

BEATRICE.  Ay,  be  happy,  child. 

BIANCA.     Why  do  you  call  me  child? 
BEATRICE.  Faith,  'tis  the  season 

O'  the  year  when  I  am  older  than  you.     Besides, 

A  bride  is  always  younger  than  a  spinster. 
BIANCA.     A  spinster!    Do  you  come  here  to  me,  Rose-Red, 

Whilst  I  pinch  you  smartly!     You,  Arianna,  push  me 

Her  Highness  over  here,  that  I  may  pinch  her! 


THE  LAMP  AND  THE  BELL  301 

(To  Loretta)     Nay,  is  it  finished?     Aye,  'tis  very  well. 
Though  not  so  well,  Loretta,  as  many  a  day 
When  I  was  doing  nothing !  —  Nay,  my  girl, 
'Tis  well  enough.     He  will  take  me  as  I  am 
Or  leave  me  as  I  was.     You  may  come  back 
In  half  an  hour,  if  you  are  grieved  about  it, 
And  do  it  again.     But  go  now,  —  all  of  you. 
I  wish  to  be  alone.     ( To  Beatrice)     Not  you. 
(Exeunt  all  but  Beatrice  and  Bianco) 
Oh,  Rose-Red, 

I  trust  'twill  not  be  long  before  I  see  you 
As  happy  as  you  see  me  now! 

BEATRICE.  Indeed, 

I  could  not  well  be  happier  than  I  am. 
You  do  not  know,  maybe,  how  much  I  love  you. 

BIANCA.     Ah,  but  I  do,  —  I  have  a  measure  for  it ! 

BEATRICE.     Ay,  for  to-day  you  have.     But  not  for  long. 
They  say  a  bride  forgets  her  friends,  —  she  cleaves  so 
To  her  new  lord.     It  cannot  but  be  true. 
You  will  be  gone  from  me.     There  will  be  much 
To  drive  me  from  your  mind. 

BIANCA.  Shall  I  forget,  then, 

When  I  am  old,  I  ever  was  a  child? 
I  tell  you  I  shall  never  think  of  you 
Throughout  my  life,  without  such  tenderness 
As  breaks  the  heart,  —  and  I  shall  think  of  you 
Whenever  I  am  most  happy,  whenever  I  am 
Most  sad,  whenever  I  see  a  beautiful  thing. 
You  are  a  burning  lamp  to  me,  a  flame 
The  wind  cannot  blow  out,  and  I  shall  hold  you 
High  in  my  hand  against  whatever  darkness. 

BEATRICE.     You  are  to  me  a  silver  bell  in  a  tower. 
And  when  it  rings  I  know  I  am  near  home. 


302  THE  LAMP  AND  THE  BELL 

SCENE  3 
A  room  in  the  palace.     Mario  alone.     Enter  Beatrice. 

BEATRICE.     Mario !     I  have  a  message  for  you !  —  Nay, 
You  need  not  hang  your  head  and  shun  me,  Mario, 
Because  you  loved  me  once  a  little  and  now 
Love  somebody  else  much  more.     The  going  of  love 
Is  no  less  honest  than  the  coming  of  it. 
It  is  a  human  thing. 

MARIO.  Oh,  Beatrice! 

What  can  I  say  to  you? 

BEATRICE.  Nay,  but  indeed, 

Say  nothing.     All  is  said.     I  need  no  words 
To  tell  me  you  have  been  troubled  in  your  heart, 
Thinking  of  me. 

MARIO.  What  can  I  say  to  you! 

BEATRICE.     I  tell  you,  my  dear  friend,  you  must  forget 
This  thing  that  makes  you  sad.     I  have  forgotten, 
In  seeing  her  so  happy,  that  ever  I  wished 
For  happiness  myself.     Indeed,  indeed, 
I  am  much  happier  in  her  happiness 
Than  if  it  were  my  own;  'tis  doubly  dear, 
I  feel  it  in  myself,  yet  all  the  time 
I  know  it  to  be  hers,  and  am  twice  glad. 

MARIO.     I  could  be  on  my  knees  to  you  a  lifetime, 
Nor  pay  you  half  the  homage  is  your  due. 

BEATRICE.     Pay  me  no  homage,  Mario,  —  but  if  it  be 
I  have  your  friendship,  I  shall  treasure  it. 

MARIO.     That  you  will  have  always. 

BEATRICE.  Then  you  will  promise  me 

Never  to  let  her  know.     I  never  told  her 
How  it  was  with  us,  or  that  I  cherished  you 
More  than  another.     It  was  on  my  tongue  to  tell  her 
The  moment  she  returned,  but  she  had  seen  you 
Already  on  the  bridge  as  she  went  by, 
And  had  leaned  out  to  look  at  you,  it  seems, 
And  you  were  looking  at  her,  —  and  the  first  words 


THE  LAMP  AND  THE  BELL  303 

She  said,  after  she  kissed  me,  were,  "Oh,  sister, 
I  have  looked  at  last  by  daylight  on  the  man 
I  see  in  my  dreams!" 

MARIO  (tenderly).  Did  she  say  that? 

BEATRICE  (drily).  Ay,  that 

Was  what  she  said.  —  By  which  I  knew,  you  see, 
My  dream  was  over,  —  it  could  not  but  be  you. 
So  that  I  said  no  word,  but  my  quick  blood 
Went  suddenly  quiet  in  my  veins,  and  I  felt 
Years  older  than  Bianca.     I  drew  her  head 
Down  to  my  shoulder,  that  she  might  not  see  my  face, 
And  she  spoke  on,  and  on.     You  must  not  tell  her, 
Even  when  you  both  are  old,  and  there  is  nothing 
To  do  but  to  remember.     She  would  be  withered 
With  pity  for  me.     She  holds  me  very  dear. 

MARIO.     I  promise  it,  Rose-Red.     And  oh,  believe  me, 
I  said  no  word  to  you  last  year  that  is  not 
As  true  to-day !     I  hold  you  still  the  noblest 
Of  women,  and  the  bravest.     I  have  not  changed. 
Only  last  year  I  did  not  know  I  could  love 
As  I  love  now.     Her  gentleness  has  crept  so 
Into  my  heart,  it  never  will  be  out. 
That  she  should  turn  to  me  and  cling  to  me 
And  let  me  shelter  her,  is  the  great  wonder 
Of  the  world.     You  stand  alone.    You  need  no  shelter, 
Rose-Red. 

BEATRICE.         It  may  be  so. 

MARIO.  Will  you  forgive  me? 

BEATRICE.     I  had  not  thought  of  that.     If  it   will  please 

you, 

Ay,  surely.  —  And  now,  the  reason  for  my  coming: 
I  have  a  message  for  you,  of  such  vast  import 
She  could  not  trust  it  to  a  liv'ried  page, 
Or  even  a  courier.     She  bids  me  tell  you 
She  loves  you  still,  although  you  have  been  parted 
Since  four  o'clock. 

MARIO  (happily).  Did  she  say  that? 


304  THE  LAMP  AND  THE  BELL 

BEATRICE.  Ay,  Mario. 

I  must  return  to  her.     It  is  not  long  now 

Till  she  will  leave  me. 
MARIO.  She  will  never  leave  you, 

She  tells  me,  in  her  heart. 

BEATRICE  (happily).  Did  she  say  that? 

MARIO.     Ay,  that  she  did,  and  I  was  jealous  of  you 

One  moment,  till  I  called  myself  a  fool. 
BEATRICE.     Nay,  Mario,  she  does  not  take  from  you 

To  give  to  me;  and  I  am  most  content 

She  told  you  that.     I  will  go  now.     Farewell, 

Mario ! 
MARIO.         Nay,  we  shall  meet  again,  Beatrice! 

SCENE  4 

The  ballroom  of  the  palace  at  Fiori,  raised  place  in  back,  sur 
mounted  by  two  big  chairs,  for  Lorenzo  and  Octavia  to  sit  while 
the  dance  goes  on.  Dais  on  one  side,  well  down  stage,  in  full 
sight  of  the  audience,  for  Mario  and  Bianca.  As  the  curtain 
rises,  the  stage  is  empty  except  for  Fidelio,  who  sits  forlornly 
on  the  bottom  steps  of  the  raised  place  in  the  back  of  the  stage,  his 
lute  across  his  knees,  his  head  bowed  upon  it.  Sound  of  laughter 
and  conversation,  possibly  rattling  of  dishes,  off  stage,  evidently 
a  feast  going  on. 

LAURA  (off  stage) .     Be  still,  or  I  will  heave  a  plate  at  you ! 

LUIGI  (off  stage).     Nay,  gentle  Laura,  heave  not  the  wedding- 
crockery 

At  the  wedding  guest !     Behold  me  on  my  knees 
To  tell  the  world  I  love  you  like  a  fool ! 

LAURA.     Get  up,  you  oaf!     Or  here's  a  platter  of  gravy 
Will  add  the  motley  to  your  folly ! 

LUIGI.  Hold  her, 

Some  piteous  fop,  that  liketh  not  to  see 
Fine  linen  smeared  with  goose !     Oh,  gracious  Laura, 
I  never  have  seen  a  child  sucking  an  orange 
But  I  wished  an  orange,  too.     This  wedding  irks  me 


THE  LAMP  AND  THE  BELL  305 

Because  'tis  not  mine  own.     Shall  we  be  married 

Tuesday  or  Wednesday? 

LAURA.  Are  you  in  earnest,  Luigi? 

LUIGI.     Ay,  that  I  am,  if  never  I  was  before. 
LAURA.     La,  I  am  lost !     I  am  a  married  woman ! 

Water !  —  Nay,  wine  will  do !     On  Wednesday,  then. 

I'll  have  it  as  far  off  as  possible. 

[Enter  from  banquet-room  Guido,  Giovanni  and  Raffaele. 
GIOVANNI.     Well  met,  Fidelio !    Give  us  a  song ! 
FIDELIO.  Not  I! 

GUIDO.     Why,  what  is  this?    You,  that  are  dripping  with 

Week  days,  are  dry  of  music  for  a  wedding? 
FIDELIO.     I  have  a  headache..    Go  and  sit  in  a  tree, 

And  make  your  own  songs. 
RAFFAELE.  Nay,  Fidelio. 

String  the  sweet  strings,  man ! 

GIOVANNI.  Strike  the  pretty  strings! 

GUIDO.     Give  us  the  silver  strings ! 
FIDELIO  Nay  then,  I  will  that ! 

(He  tears  the  strings  off  the  lute  and  throws  them  in  Guido's 

face) 

Here  be  the  strings,  my  merry  gentlemen ! 

Do  you  amuse  yourself  with  tying  knots  in  them 

And  hanging  one  another !  —  I  have  a  headache. 

[He  runs  off,  sobbing. 
RAFFAELE.     What  ails  him,  think  you? 
GIOVANNI.  Troth,  I  have  no  notion. 

[Enter  Nurse. 
GUIDO.     What  ho,  good  Grazia !     I  hear  the  king  my  uncle 

Is  ill  again! 

GRAZIA.  Where  heard  you  that,  you  raven? 

GUIDO.     Marry,  I  forget.     Is't  true? 
GRAZIA.  It  is  as  false 

As  that  you  have  forgotten  where  you  heard  it. 

Were  you  the  heir  to  his  power,  which  I  bless  God 

You're  not !  —  he'd  live  to  hide  the  throne  from  you 

Full  many  a  long  day  yet!  —  Nay,  pretty  Guido, 


306  THE  LAMP  AND  THE  BELL 

Your  cousin  is  not  yet  Queen,  —  and  when  she  is  —  Faith, 
She  weareth  a  wide  petticoat,  —  there'll  be 
Scant  room  for  you  beside  her. 
[Exit  Nurse  across  stage. 

GUIDO  (To  his  companions).  None  the  less 

I  do  believe  the  king  is  ill. 

RAFFAELE.  Who  told  yOU? 

GUIDO.     His  wife.     She  is  much  exercised  about  him. 

GIOVANNI.  'Tis  like  enough.  This  woman  would  rather  lie 
Than  have  her  breakfast  served  to  her  in  bed. 
[Exeunt  Guido,  Giovanni  and  Raffaele. 
Music.  Enter  Musicians  and  take  place  on  stage.  Enter 
four  pages  and  take  places  on  either  side  the  door  from  the 
banquet  hall  and  on  either  side  the  throne  in  the  back.  Enter 
Lorenzo  and  Octavia,  Lorenzo  apparently  quite  well,  and  seat 
themselves  on  throne  in  back.  Enter  courtiers  and  ladies, 
Carlotta  with  Anselmo,  Laura  with  Luigi,  etc.,  and  stand 
in  little  groups  about  the  stage,  laughing  and  talking  to 
gether.  Enter  Beatrice  alone,  her  train  held  by  two  pages  in 
black.  Enter  twelve  little  Cupids,  running,  and  do  a  short 
dance  in  the  center  of  the  room,  then  rush  to  the  empty  dais 
which  is  awaiting  Mario  and  Bianca,  and  cluster  about  it. 
Enter  Bianca  and  Mario,  she  in  white  and  silver,  with  a  deep 
sky-blue  velvet  train  six  yards  long,  held  up  by  six  silver 
pages  (or  Cupids);  he  in  black  and  gold,  with  a  purple  velvet 
train  of  the  same  length  held  by  six  gold  pages  (or  Cupids). 
His  arm  is  about  her  waist,  she  is  leaning  back  her  head 
against  him  and  looking  up  into  his  face.  They  come  in 
slowly,  talking  softly  together,  as  utterly  oblivious  of  the  court, 
the  pages,  the  music,  everything,  as  if  they  were  a  shepherd  and 
a  shepherdess  walking  through  a  meadow.  They  walk  slowly 
across  the  stage  and  seat  themselves  on  the  dais.  The  music 
changes,  strikes  up  a  gay  pavane;  the  ladies  and  courtiers 
dance.  Guido,  Giovanni  and  Raffaele  reenter  just  as  the 
music  starts  and  go  up  to  the  ladies;  Guido  goes  to  Beatrice, 
and  she  dances  with  him.  In  the  midst  of  the  dance  Lorenzo 
slips  a  little  sidewise  in  his  chair,  his  head  drops  forward  on 


THE   LAMP  AND  THE  BELL  307 

his  chest;  he  does  not  move  again.  Nobody  notices  for  some 
time.  The  dance  continues,  all  who  are  not  dancing  watching 
the  dancers,  save  Octavia,  who  watches  with  great  pride  and 
affection  Bianca  and  Mario,  who  in  turn  are  looking  at  one 
another.  Octavia  turns  finally  to  speak  to  Lorenzo,  stares  at 
him,  touches  him,  then  screams.  Music  stops  in  confusion  on 
a  discord,  dance  breaks  up  wildly,  everybody  rushes  to  throne. 

SCENE  5 

The  same  room  later  that  evening,  entirely  empty,  disordered. 
Musicians'  benches  overturned,  a  couple  of  instruments  left 
about,  garlands  trampled  on  the  floor,  a  wing  of  one  of  the 
Cupids  clinging  to  the  dais  of  Bianca  and  Mario.  Enter 
Beatrice,  weeping,  goes  to  her  father's  throne  and  creeps 
up  into  it,  with  her  face  towards  the  back  of  it  and  clings  there, 
sobbing  quietly.  Enter  Bianca  and  Mario. 

BIANCA  (softly).    Ay.    She  is  here.    I  thought  she  would  be 
here. 

There  are  so  many  people  by  his  bed 

Even  now,  she  cannot  be  alone  with  him. 
MARIO.     Is  there  no  hope? 
BIANCA.  Nay,  there  is  none.     JTis  over. 

He  was  a  kind  old  man. 
MARIO.  Come,  let  us  go, 

And  leave  her  to  herself. 
BIANCA.  Nay,  Mario. 

I  must  not  leave  her.     She  will  sit  like  that 

All  night,  unless  I  bid  her  come  away, 

And  put  her  into  bed. 
MARIO.  Will  you  come  to  me 

After  she  sleeps? 

BIANCA.  Ay.     If  she  sleeps. 

MARIO.  And  if  not? 

BIANCA.     I  could  not  leave  her. 

MARIO.  Bianca,  do  you  love  me? 

BIANCA.     Ay,  Mario! 


308  THE  LAMP  AND  THE  BELL 

MARIO.  Ah,  but  not  as  I  love  you ! 

BIANCA.     You  do  not  think  that,  Mario;  you  know 

How  much  I  love  you.     But  I  could  not  be  happy 

Thinking  of  her  awake  in  the  darkness,  weeping, 

And  all  alone. 

MARIO.  Oh,  my  sweet  love! 

BIANCA.  It  may  be 

She  will  sleep. 
MARIO.  I  shall  be  waiting  for  you. 

[They  embrace. 

[Exit  Mario.     Bianca  goes  to  Beatrice  and  sits  at  the  foot 

of  the  throne,  putting  her  head  against  Beatrice's  feet. 
BIANCA.  Sister. 

[After  a  moment  Beatrice  slowly  reaches  down  her  hand,  and 

Bianca  takes  it. 

CURTAIN 

ACT  IV 

SCENE  1  —  Five  years  later 

A  marketplace  in  Fiori,  vegetables,  fruits  and  flowers  exposed 
for  sale  in  little  stalls  and  wagons,  crowd  of  townspeople  moving 
about,  talking,  laughing,  buying.  Group  of  children  playing 
a  game  in  a  ring.  Supper  time. 

CHILDREN.     One,  two,  three, 

The  dough  is  in  the  oven ! 

One,  two,  three, 

The  bread  is  on  the  board ! 

One,  two,  three, 

The  dough  is  in  the  oven! 

One,  two,  three, 

The  bread  is  on  the  board! 

One,  two,  three, 

All  follow  me ! 
EUGENIA.     Good-even,  Giovanitta.     Those  are  beautiful 

Onions  you  have  there. 


THE  LAMP  AND  THE  BELL  309 

GIOVANITTA.  Ay,  it  has  been  a  good  year 

For  onions. 

EUGENIA.  I  am  taking  seven. 

GIOVANITTA.  •  Each  year, 

You  buy  another  onion ! 
EUGENIA.  Faith,  each  year 

I  have  another  mouth  to  thrust  it  in ! 

Beautiful  carrots,  too,  you  have. 
GIOVANITTA.  Ay,  carrots 

Are  well  enough.     One  cannot  complain.     'Tis  a  good  year 

For  carrots. 
CLARA.  'Tis  a  good  year  for  many  things. 

Prices  are  low,  —  but  not  too  low  for  profit. 
GIULIANA.     And  there  are  fewer  taxes  than  there  once  were 

On  things  one  cannot  live  without. 
ANNA.  'Tis  a  good  Queen 

We  have,  it  must  be  granted. 

GIOVANITTA.  Ay,  and  a  wise  one. 

GILDA.     And  pretty,  too. 

GIULIANA.  Ho,  ho!     When  did  you  see  her? 

GILDA.    This  morning,  mother.    I  was  at  the  edge  of  the  wood 

With  Beppo,  when  they  rode  by  to  the  hunt, 

Talking  together,  and  laughing. 
BEPPO  (calling  from  across  the  stage).    And  the  horses 

With  feet  like  this! 

[Arching  his  hands  and  feet  to  represent  a  horse  stepping 
delicately. 

GILDA.  And  glittering  in  the  sunshine 

I  In  a  thousand  places,  mother !     I  wanted  to  tell  you 
When  we  returned,  but  you  had  gone  to  the  brook 
With  the  linen.    They  were  so  near  us  we  could  hear  them 
Talking. 

BEPPO  (coming  up).    And  hear  the  horses  breathe! 

V|NNA.  What  said  they? 

GILDA.     Well,  one  of  them  said  —  what  was  the  name? 

BEPPO.  Anselmo. 


310  THE  LAMP  AND  THE  BELL 

GILDA.     Oh,  ay.     She  said,  "Anselmo,  am  I  getting  thinner 

Do  you  think?     If  I  be  not  thinner  than  I  was  at  starting, 

I  shall  descend  at  once!     I  like  not  this; 

It  chatters  my  teeth."* 

BEPPO.  And  then  she  said  — 

GILDA.  What  said  she? 

Oh,  ay,  —  about  the  boat. 
BEPPO.  She  said,  "Next  time 

I  shall  go  fishing  instead  of  hunting.     A  boat 

Hath  a  more  mannerly  gait!" 
GILDA.  There  was  one  horse,  mother, 

That  was  all  white!    There  was  not  one  hair  upon  him 

That  was  not  white! 

GIULIANA.  And  who  was  riding  that  horse? 

BEPPO.     A  man.     And  riding  well. 
GILDA.  He  was  dressed  in  green. 

And  had  a  yellow  beard.     And  there  was  a  lady 

With  hair  the  color  of  Adelina's,  bright 

Like    fire.      She   was   dressed   in   blue,    and   was   most 

beautiful. 

BEPPO.     And  she  was  mounted  on  a  dappled  mare. 
GILDA.     But,  oh,  it  was  the  Queen  that  was  more  lovely  — 

Than  any  of  the  rest ! 
GIOVANITTA.  How  did  you  know,  now, 

It  was  the  Queen? 
GILDA.  Nay,  but  you  could  not  help 

But  know!     She  was  not  laughing  like  the  rest,  — 

Just  smiling;  and  I  should  not  have  been  afraid 

To  toss  a  flower  to  her  from  the  wood, 

If  I  had  a  flower. 
BEPPO.  You  knew  her,  though, 

Because  she  was  in  scarlet.     All  the  world  knows 

She  wears  a  scarlet  mantle! 
GILDA.  Nay,  if  that  were  all, 

It  might  have  been  the  Pope! 
BEPPO.  I  would  it  had  been. 

I  never  saw  the  Pope. 


THE  LAMP  AND  THE  BELL  311 


GILDA.  You  never  saw 

The  Queen  until  this  morning !  —  Mother,  she  rides 

Clothed  like  a  man,  almost ! 

BEPPO.  With  sword  at  side! 

GILDA.     And,  oh,  the  sword  had  a  jeweled  —  what  is  the 

name  of  it? 

BEPPO.     Scabbard,  of  course! 
GILDA.  A  jeweled  scabbard,  mother ! 

I  wish  I  were  a  queen. 
BEPPO.  Ho,  you  would  make 

A  proper  queen,  with  that  droll  nose  of  yours ! 
GILDA.     I  know  a  boy  who  likes  my  nose! 
BEPPO.  Ho,  ho! 

He  must  be  a  hunchback! 

GIULIANA.  You  must  not  tease  her,  Beppo. 

GILDA.     I  wish  I  were  queen.     If  I  were  a  queen, 

You  would  not  dare  to  say  my  nose  is  droll. 
BEPPO.     It  would  be,  all  the  same. 
GIOVANITTA.  You  should  be  content 

With  what  you  have,  not  wish  to  rise  beyond  it. 

It  is  a  sin  to  covet. 
GIULIANA.  Being  a  queen, 

My  bird,  is  not  all  riding  to  the  hunt 

Of  a  sunny  morning. 

ANNA.  Nay,  'tis  riding  back 

,    At  times,  of  a  rainy  night,  to  such  a  burden 

Of  cares  as  simple  folk  have  little  mind  of. 
GILDA.     I'd  rather  have  a  queen's  cares  than  my  own. 
BEPPO.     Ho,  ho!    Your  cares!     What  cares  have  you? 
GILDA.  I  have 

A  brother  that  will  be  teasing  me  all  times ! 

'Tis  cares  enough  for  one,  I  tell  you. 
ADELINA  (across  the  stage).  Beppo! 

Come  help  me  fetch  the  milk ! 
GILDA.  Oh,  Mister  Beppo, 

Your  sweetheart  calls  you!     Run  and  fetch  the  milk! 


312  THE  LAMP  AND  THE  BELL 

LEONORA  (from  a  house,  coming  out).     Come  in  to  supper, 

children ! 

RIGO.     Oh,  not  just  yet! 
ELENORA.     Father's  not  home  yet ! 

LEONORA.  You  need  not  wait  for  him. 

LOUISA.     May  we  come  out  again? 
LEONORA  (joining  other  women).        Ay,  for  a  time. 

Till  it  gets  dark. 

RIGO  (to  Louisa).          'Tis  dark  now,  almost. 
LOUISA.     Hush ! 

She  does  not  know  it. 
GIULIANA.  Tis  dark  now. 

LEONORA.  Ay,  I  know. 

I  let  them  play  a  little  after  dark 

Sometimes,  when  the  weather's  fine.     I  would  not  have 

them 

Afraid  of  shadows.     They  think  I  do  not  know 

Darkness  from  light. 

ELENORA.  There's  father  now! 

RIGO.  I  see  him ! 

[Elenora,  Louisa  and  Rigo  run  off  the  stage  and  along 
the  path. 

LEONORA.     He  is  late  home  to-day.     I  cannot  think 

What  may  have  held  him.     'Twill  be  deep  night  already 

In  the  woods. 
CESCO  (offstage,  harshly).     Down!    Down!    Do  you  run  back 

to  your  mother! 

See  you  not  I  am  in  haste?  —  Hang  not  upon  me! 
EUGENIA.     La!    He  is  in  a  temper! 
LEONORA.  I  never  knew  him 

So  out  of  patience  with  them. 

GIULIANA.  He  is  hungry,  maybe. 

LEONORA.     He  is  often  hungry,  but  I  never  knew  him 

So  out  of  patience. 

(The  children  come  running  back.     To  Elenora) 

Why  do  you  weep,  my  heart? 


THE  LAMP  AND  THE  BELL  313 

LUIGI.     Father  is  some  one  else  to-night. 
ELENORA  (weeping).  He  pushed  me! 

[Enter  Cesco,  with  game  on  his  shoulder. 

SEVERAL  WOMEN.       Good-CVCn,  CeSCO. 

CESCO  (to  Leonora).  Look  you,  Leonora, 

Have  we  a  bed  fit  for  a  queen  to  lie  in? 
LEONORA.     Nay,  faith!     Not  we! 

GILDA.  She  can  have  my  bed,  mother. 

GIULIANA.     Ay,  true.     There  is  a  bed  in  my  house,  Cesco. 
GIOVANITTA.     What  will  the  queen  do  here? 
GIULIANA.  I  would  indeed 

She  had  let  us  know  that  she  was  coming! 
CESCO.  The  Queen 

Knew  not  herself.     Nor  is  she  coming  of  herself. 

They  are  bringing  her,  —  on  a  litter  of  crossed  boughs. 
GILDA.     She  is  not  dead? 
CESCO.  Nay.     Wounded  i'  the  arm 

A  little,  and  in  a  swoon.     But  the  young  King 

Of  Lagoverde  is  no  more! 
WOMEN.  How  so? 

CESCO.     I  tell  you  my  two  eyes  have  looked  this  day 

On  a  sad  and  useless  thing !  —  A  fine  lad,  young, 

And  strong,  and  beautiful  as  a  lad  may  be, 

And  king  of  a  fair  country,  thrust  from  horse 

By  a  foul  blow,  and  sprawled  upon  the  ground,  — 

Legs  wide  asunder,  fist  full  of  brown  mud, 

Hair  in  his  eyes,  —  most  pitiful  unkingly ! 

Bring  me  a  mug  of  wine,  good  wife ! 

[Leonora  goes  out. 
GIOVANITTA.  You,  Gilda! 

There  is  a  queen  you  would  not  be  to-night, 

I'll  warrant  you,  —  the  Queen  of  Lagoverde, 

With  her  two  fatherless  babes! 
EUGENIA.  Nay,  now,  good  Cesco, 

What  is  this  matter? 
CESCO.  You'll  know  it  quick  enough. 

They  will  be  bringing  the  queen  here  ere  I  have  breath 


314  THE  LAMP  AND  THE  BELL 

To  tell  you.     They  are  coming  by  the  road. 
I  took  the  mountain  path,  and  ran. 

GIULIANA.  I  must  hasten 

To  put  fresh  sheets  on.    (ToGilda)    Look  you, —  listen  well 

If  he  should  talk,  and  tell  me  afterwards. 

[Exit. 

EUGENIA.     Here  comes  Horatio !    The  boats  are  in. 
[Some  children  rush  down  to  the  water-side. 
A  good  day,  husband? 

HORATIO.  Ay,  a  heavy  day. 

What  think  you  of  that?  —  A  big  one,  eh?  —  Came  in 
With  a  school  of  little  fish,  —  too  greedy  that  time ! 
What  happens  here?  —  The  air  is  full  of  breathing! 
[The  men  come  up  from  the  boats  with  children  clinging  to 
them.     Beppo  and  Adelina  return  from  another  direction 
with  the  milk. 

LEONORA  (somewhat  proudly).     Cesco  will  tell  you. 

CESCO.     In  a  word  'tis  this :  To-day  the  Queen  of  Fiori, 
Returning  from  the  hunt,  is  set  upon 
By  brigands;  whereat  the  King  of  Lagoverde, 
Being  hunting  in  that  quarter  and  hearing  cries, 
Comes  up  to  give  his  aid;  in  rendering  which 
He  gives  his  life  as  well,  and  at  this  moment, 
On  other  men's  legs,  goes  heavily  home  to  supper. 
The  Queen  of  Fiori,  wounded,  and  in  a  swoon 
Only  less  deep  than  death  itself,  comes  this  way. 

CROWD.     Ay,  here  they  come! 
[Enter  Anselmo. 

ANSELMO. 

Make  way,  make  way,  good  people — 
Fall  back  a  little  —  leave  a  clear  space  —  give  air ! 
(Enter  Laura  and  Francesca,  Luigi,  several  gentlemen,  and 
several  attendants,  four  of  them  bearing  a  litter  on  which  lies 
Beatrice,  in  a  scarlet  cloak,  her  hair  flowing.  Luigi  is  with 
Laura,  who  clings  to  him.  If  possible  to  arrange,  several  of 
the  party  may  lead  on  their  horses  and  lead  them  off  across  the 
stage.  The  litter  is  set  down  stage  in  full  sight  of  the  audience. 


THE  LAMP  AND  THE  BELL  315 

Beppo  comes  down  stage  near  it,  as  does  also,  from  another 

direction,  Gilda.     Giuliana  returns) 

Who  has  a  bed  that  we  may  lay  her  on? 

She  cannot  leave  this  place  to-night. 
GIULIANA.  This  way,  sir. 

[The  attendants  pick  up  the  litter  and  go  off,  the  crowd  follow 
ing. 

GILDA  (stealing  back).    Hist,  Beppo! 
BEPPO.  Ay? 

GILDA.  Heard  you  not  something  fall, 

When  they  picked  her  up  again? 
BEPPO.  Ay,  that  I  did. 

GILDA.     What  was  it,  think  you?    (They  search)    Nay,  'twas 

nearer  here. 

BEPPO.     I  have  it.  —  'Tis  her  sword ! 
GILDA.  The  Queen's?    Ay,  —  truly. 

How  beautiful ! 
BEPPO  (slowly  and  with  awe  drawing  it  from  its  scabbard). 

Look,  —  there  is  blood  on  it ! 

SCENE  2 

A  room  in  the  palace  at  Lagoverde.  Bianea  and  her  two 
little  daughters  discovered  at  the  rise  of  the  curtain,  she  in  a  big 
chair,  they  at  her  feet. 

BIANCA.     And  so  the  fairy  laid  a  spell  on  her : 

Henceforth  she  should  be  ugly  as  a  toad. 

But  the  good  fairy,  seeing  this  was  done, 

And  having  in  no  wise  power  to  alter  this, 

Made  all  toads  beautiful. 
LITTLE  ROSE-RED.  They  are  not  beautiful 

Now,  mother! 
LITTLE  SNOW-WHITE.     That  was  in  another  country !  — 

What  country,  mother? 

[Bianea,  lost  in  thought,  does  not  answer. 
LITTLE  ROSE-RED.  Where  is  father,  mother?  — 

I  have  not  seen  him  in  so  many  days ! ' 


316  THE  LAMP  AND  THE  BELL 

BIANCA.     Father  is  gone  away. 

LITTLE  ROSE-RED.  Will  he  come  back? 

BIANCA.     Nay.     He  will  not  come  back.     But  we  shall  go 
Where  he  is. 

LITTLE  SNOW-WHITE.       Soon? 

BIANCA.  God  grant  it  may  be  soon! 

Now  —  shall  we  play  a  game? 

[Enter  Octavia. 

OCTAVIA.  Bianca. 

BIANCA.  Ay. 

OCTAVIA.     It  is  a  folly  to  remain  indoors 

Like  this.     You  should  be  out  in  the  sunshine. 
BIANCA.  Nay. 

I  have  no  business  with  the  sunshine. 
OCTAVIA.  Ah, 

My  daughter,  say  not  so !  —  The  children,  then,  — 

They  have  much  need  of  it,  and  they  have  need 

Of  you,  at  the  same  time.     Take  them  without. 
BIANCA.     I  do  not  wish  to  be  in  the  sunshine. 
LITTLE  SNOW-WHITE.  Mother, 

Come  out  of  doors ! 
OCTAVIA.  You  see,  now! 

BIANCA.  Do  you  run  out,  dears, 

And  play  at  ball.     Mother  will  join  you  later. 
LITTLE  ROSE-RED.     Where  is  my  ball? 
BIANCA.  Nay,  do  you  not  remember? 

We  put  it  in  the  ear  of  the  stone  griffin, 

Because  he  hears  too  much. 
LITTLE  ROSE-RED.  Ay,  so  we  did! 

LITTLE  SNOW-WHITE.     Come  on,  Rose-Red ! 

[Exeunt  children. 
OCTAVIA.  It  is  a  curious  thing 

This  friend  of  yours  you  rate  so  monstrous  high 

Has  not  come  nigh  you  in  your  sore  affliction ! 
BIANCA.     I  beg  you  not  to  speak  of  that  again, 

Mother.     'Tis  the  third  time  to-day  you  have  said  that, 

Or  hinted  at  it.     And  I  answer  always, 


THE  LAMP  AND  THE  BELL  317 

"There  is  some  reason  for  it,"  as  I  should  answer 

Though  you  cried  daily  till  the  day  of  doom, 

"It  is  a  curious  thing!"     There  is  some  reason, 

There  is  some  good  reason  why  she  does  not  come. 
OCTAVIA.     Oh,  ay,  I  doubt  it  not !     But  there  are  reasons 

And  reasons ! 

BIANCA.  And  what  am  I  to  learn  from  that? 

OCTAVIA.     'Tis  scarce  by  reason  of  too  much  love  for  you 

She  leaves  you  friendless  in  your  greatest  need. 
BIANCA.     I  cannot  say.     'Tis  one  thing  or  another. 

You  have  no  words  can  turn  me  to  believe 

She  has  forgotten  me,  or  loves  me  less. 

'Tis  a  big  thing,  to  leave  me  thus  alone,  — 

And  there  is  some  big  reason. 
OCTAVIA.  Ay.     Oh,  ay. 

'Tis  possible  she  grieves  for  Mario's  death 

No  less  than  you. 
BIANCA  (simply).          Ay,  it  is  possible. 

I  mind  she  told  me  on  my  marriage-day 

She  was  as  happy  as  I. 
OCTAVIA.  'Tis  a  curious  thing, 

When  he  was  here  she  came  to  see  you  often, 

But  now  that  he  is  gone  comes  not  at  all. 
BIANCA  (simply).     Ay,  it  is  curious. 

(Catching  Octavia's  expression) 

Nay,  what  evil  thing 

Is  in  your  mind,  gives  you  that  evil  smile? 
OCTAVIA.     Only  a  little  thought. 
BIANCA.  A  little  thought, 

I'll  warrant  you!  —  You'd  have  me  to  believe 

She  loved  my  husband? 

OCTAVIA.  Ay,  I  know  she  loved  him. 

BIANCA.     It  is  a  lie! 

OCTAVIA.  How  dare  you  say  I  lie ! 

BIANCA.     Oh,  do  not  be  so  proud !     Let  us  speak  truth 

At  length,  a  little!     We  are  so  garnished  up 

With  courtesies,  so  over-sauced  and  seasoned, 


318  THE  LAMP  AND  THE  BELL 

We  cannot  taste  each  other!     Why  do  you  tell  me 
A  thing  like  that?  —  You  have  no  love  for  me! 

OCTAVIA  (weeping).  I  love  you  too  much  —  you  are  the  only 

thing 
I  do  love! 

BIANCA.  Nay,  it  is  not  love  of  me 

For  my  own  self.     Else  would  you  do  the  thing 

Would  make  me  happiest.  You  know  how  I  have  loved  her, 

Since  we  were  children.     You  could  not  be  to  me 

What  she  was;  one  forgets  too  many  things. 

You  could  not  know  my  thought.     I  loved  you  dearly, 

But  you  were  hard  to  love;  one  never  knew 

Whether  you  would  be  hot  or  cold  to  touch. 

Whilst  she  and  I,  —  oh,  we  were  two  young  trees 

So  nearly  of  a  height  we  had  the  same  world 

Ever  within  our  vision !  —  Yet  all  these  years, 

Even  from  the  time  we  first  went  to  Fiori, 

You  have  been  bearing  me  your  little  tales,  — 

"She  had  done  this  and  that,  she  was  thus  and  so  — ," 

Seeking  to  stir  and  poison  the  clear  water 

Of  my  deep  love  for  her!    And  now  this  thing, 

Which  is  not  true.     But  if  it  had  been  true, 

It  would  not  be  so  out  of  all  reason  cruel 

As  that  you  should  have  told  me  of  it  now. 

Nay,  do  not  weep.     All  day  'tis  one  of  us 

Making  the  other  weep.     We  are  two  strange, 

Unhappy  women.     Come,  let  us  be  at  peace. 

(Pause.     Bianco,  rises  suddenly) 

Mother,  farewell  a  little  while.     I  go  now 

To  her,  seeing  that  she  does  not  come  to  me. 

But  not  to  question  her,  not  to  demand, 

"How  comes  it:  this?     What  can  you  say  to  that?" 

Only  to  sit  beside  her,  as  in  the  old  days, 

And  let  her  lay  her  quiet  on  my  heart. 


THE  LAMP  AND  THE   BELL  319 

SCENE  3 

The  garden  at  Fiori,  same  as  in  Act  I,  Scene  1.     Discovered 
seated  on  a  stone  bench  in  ihe  sunshine,  Beatrice,  clad  in  a  loose 
gown,  looking  very  ill.     Fidelio  sings  off  stage. 
FIDELIO  (singing). 

"Let  the  little  birds  sing, 

Let  the  little  lambs  play. 

Spring  is  here,  and  so  'tis  spring,  — 

But  not  in  the  old  way. 

I  recall  a  place 
Where  a  plum-tree  grew,  — 
There  you  lifted  up  your  face 
And  blossoms  covered  you. 

If  the  little  birds  sing, 
And  the  little  lambs  play, 
Spring  is  here,  and  so  'tis  spring,  — 
But  not  in  the  old  way." 

BEATRICE.     It  is  a  pretty  song.     There  be  some  things 

That  even  the  tortured  heart's  profoundest  anguish 

Cannot  bring  down  from  their  high  place.     Music 

Is  one  of  them. 

[Enter  Grazia,  carrying  a  bowl. 
GRAZIA.  Now,  will  you  drink  this  broth, 

Or  will  you  not  ?     I  swear  upon  my  shroud  — 

And  'tis  a  solemn  oath  —  I  never  nursed 

So  vaporous  a  patient !  —  Come,  my  bird ! 
BEATRICE  (taking  the  bowl,  then  setting  it  down).    Nay,  Nurse, 

I  cannot. 
GRAZIA.  Oh,  alackaday! 

What  shall  I  do  with  you?     Come  now,  and  drink  me 

The  pretty  broth,  my  dear! 
BEATRICE.  I  will  drink  it  later. 

'Tis  too  hot. 


320  THE  LAMP  AND  THE  BELL 

GRAZIA.  Ay,  and  in  a  moment  'twill  be 

Too  cold !     And  you'll  not  drink  it !     I  could  cry . 

[Exit  Grazia.     Enter  Fidelio. 
BEATRICE.     Fidelio,  as  you  love  me,  do  you  drink  this, 

And  quickly,  man! 

FIDELIO  (with  grief).     Oh,  my  dear  mistress! 
BEATRICE.  Drink ! 

FIDELIO  (sadly  drinking).     I  best  would  leave  a  little  else 
she'll  know 

'Twas  never  you. 
BEATRICE.  Ay,  so  you  would.     I'  faith, 

It  is  a  knave's  trick,  but  I  cannot  touch  it. 

Go  now,  Fidelio,  ere  she  come  again. 

[Exit  Fidelio.     Enter  Bianca. 
BIANCA  (softly).     Rose-Red. 

[Beatrice  looks  up  and  listens,  thinking  it  a  dream. 
BIANCA  Rose-Red,  dear  sister! 

BEATRICE  (bowing  her  head  and  weeping).     Oh,  my  heart! 
BIANCA  (coming  towards  her).     Why  do  you  weep? 
BEATRICE  (looking  up  startled  and  seeing  her,  jumping  to  her 

feet).     Oh,  no!     Oh,  God  above! 

Go  back!    Go  back! 
BIANCA  (amazed,  quietly).    Beatrice,  are  you  mad? 

Tis  I,  Bianca. 
BEATRICE  (more  quietly) .     Ay,  I  know  'tis  you. 

And  you  must  go  away. 

BIANCA  (breaking  down).     You  are  mad,  my  dear! 
BEATRICE.      I   would    I   were.      For   madmen    have   their 
moments 

Of  light  into  the  brain.  —  Hear  me,  Bianca, 

You  must  return  at  once  to  Lagoverde, 

And  come  to  me  no  more,  and  think  of  me 

No  more. 
BIANCA.  Ay.     I  will  go.     But  ere  I  go 

Tell  me  you  do  not  love  me.     'Tis  apparent 

You  do  not.     I  but  wish  to  hear  the  words. 


THE  LAMP  AND  THE  BELL  321 

BEATRICE.     Nay,  that  I  will  not  say.     It  would  be  well, 
To  say  it,  and  let  it  be.     But  I'll  not  say  it, 
It  is  not  true. 

BIANCA.  You  love  me  still? 

BEATRICE.  I  love  you 

More  than  all  else  on  earth.     But  I  have  wronged  you 
So  hugely  that  I  cannot  think  of  it 

And  stand  here  talking  with  you  — I  am  ill  — (She  staggers) 
You  must  pardon  me  —  I  have  been  very  ill  — 

BIANCA.     Then  it  is  true? 

BEATRICE  (with  a  cry  as  of  relief) .  Ay,  it  is  true !  Who  told  you? 

BIANCA.     My  mother  told  me.     I  said  it  was  not  true. 
But  if  'tis  true  —  I  pity  you,  Rose-Red. 
I  pity  him.     I  pity  us  all  together. 

BEATRICE  (feverishly) .    Ah,  I  can  see  it  now !  —  the  quiet  road 
In  the  deep  wood's  gathering  darkness,  the  reins  loose 
On  the  horses'  necks,  that  nodded,  nodded,  and  we 
Speaking  from  time  to  time,  and  glad  to  think 
Of  home,  —  and  suddenly  out  of  nowhere,  —  fury, 
And  faces,  and  long  swords,  and  a  great  noise! 
And  even  as  I  reached  to  draw  my  sword, 
The  arm  that  held  the  scabbard  set  on  fire, 
As  if  the  sleeve  were  burning !  —  and  my  horse 
Backing  into  the  trees,  my  hair  caught,  twisted, 
Torn  out  by  the  roots !     Then  from  the  road  behind 
A  second  fury !    And  I  turned,  confused, 
Outraged  with  pain,  and  thrust,  —  and  it  was  Mario ! 

BIANCA  (wildly).     What  are  you  saying?     What  are  you  say 
ing?     What  is  this 

You  are  telling  me?     That  it  was  you?     Your  hand  —  ? 
Oh,  God  have  mercy  upon  me !    Let  me  go ! 

BEATRICE  (pitifully  reaching  out  her  arms  towards  her). 
Snow- White !     Snow- White !  —  farewell ! 

BIANCA  (without  turning).     Oh,  God  have  mercy! 
[Exit  Bianca 

Beatrice  falls  unconscious  to  the  floor. 
CURTAIN 


322  THE  LAMP  AND  THE  BELL 

ACT  V 

SCENE  1 
A  room  in  the  palace  at  Fiori.     Anselmo  and  Luigi. 

LUIGI.     Nay,  is  that  true,  Anselmo? 

ANSELMO.  Aye,  'tis  true. 

But  no  one  saw  save  me.     I  drew  her  sword 
Out  of  his  heart  and  thrust  it  in  its  scabbard, 
Where  she  lay  senseless. 

LUIGI.  Oh,  unhappy  Queen ! 

ANSELMO.     Ay,  she  does  not  forget.     Has  it  not  struck  you 
She  rides  no  more?     Her  black  horse  stands  in  stable, 
Eating  his  head  off.     It  is  two  years  now 
Since  she  has  visited  Lagoverde;  and  the  Queen 
Of  Lagoverde  comes  not  nigh  this  place. 

LUIGI.     There's  not  the  reason  that  there  was  to  come 
Before  Octavia's  death.     •"•%; 

ANSELMO.  Nay,  'tis  not  that. 

LUIGI.     Think  you  that  Beatrice  told  her? 

ANSELMO.  Ay, 

I  doubt  it  not. 

LUIGI.  'Tis  hard.     They  were  close  friends. 

ANSELMO.     And  since  that  day  her  hand  upon  the  sceptre 
Trembles,  —  and  Guido  sees.     She  goes  too  much 
Among  the  people,  nursing  them.     She  loves  them; 
Their  griefs  are  hers,  their  hearts  are  hers,  as  well. 
But  Guido  has  a  following  in  this  court 
That  hangs  upon  his  word,  and  he  has  taught  them 
Her  gentleness  is  weakness,  and  her  love 
Faint-hearted  womanish  whims,  till  they  are  eager 
To  pull  her  down,  and  see  a  man  in  place  of  her. 

LUIGI.     Her  throne  is  like  a  raft  upon  a  sea, 
That  shifts,  and  rights  itself,  and  may  go  down 
At  any  moment. 

ANSELMO.  The  more  especially 

For  all  these  drowning  beggars  that  cling  to  it, 
Chattering  for  help.     She  will  not  strike  them  off. 


THE  LAMP  AND  THE  BELL  323 

LUIGI.     Unhappy  Queen.     And  there's  a  storm  approaching, 

If  ever  I  smelled  wind. 
ANSELMO.  I  fear  it,  Luigi. 

^/~\Exeunt  Anselmo  and  Luigi.     Enter  Guido  and  Francesca. 
FRANCESCA.     How  do  I  know  you  love  her  still?  —  I  know, 

The  way  you  fall  a-tapping  with  your  fingers, 

Or  plucking  at  your  eyebrows,  if  her  name 
_>   Be  spoken,  or  she  move  across  the  court. 

How  do  I  know?  —  Oh,  Guido,  have  I  learned  you 
»     So  little,  then,  in  all  these  bitter  years? 

I  know  you  very  well. 
GUIDO.  You  know  too  much 

I'll  have  an  end  of  this,  I  tell  you! 

FRANCESCA.  Ay. 

You've  told  me  that  before.  —  An  end  of  what? 

What  is  this  thing  you'll  put  this  mighty  end  to? 

'Fore  God  I  would  I  knew.     Could  I  but  name  it, 

I  might  have  power  to  end  it  then,  myself ! 
GUIDO.     I'll  have  an  end  of  these  soft  words  at  twilight, 

And  these  bad  mornings  full  of  bile !     I'll  have  an  end 

Of  all  this  spying  on  me! 
FRANCESCA  (gently).  'Tis  not  so. 

I  do  not  spy  upon  you.     But  I  see  you 

Bigger  than  other  men,  and  your  least  gesture  — 

A  giant  moving  rocks.  —  Oh,  Guido,  tell  me 

You  do  not  love  her!     Even  though  I  know 

You  lie,  I  will  believe  you,  —  for  I  must ! 
GUIDO  (pause).    Nay,  I  am  done  with  you.     I  will  tell  you 
nothing. 

Out  of  my  way !  —  I  have  that  on  my  mind 

Would  crush  your  silly  skull  like  the  shell  of  an  egg! 

Od's  body,  will  you  keep  your  ugly  claws 

From  scratching  at  my  sleeve? 

[He  thrusts  her  roughly  aside  and  rushes 
FRANCESCA  (creeping  away,  sobbing).    Oh,  God  —  oh,  God  — 

I  would  whatever  it  is,  that  it  were  over. 

[Exit.     Enter  Fidelio,  and  crosses  the  stage,  singing. 


324  THE  LAMP  AND  THE  BELL 

FIDELIO  (singing). 

"Rain  comes  down 
And  hushes  the  town. 

And  where  is  the  voice  that  I  heard  crying? 
Snow  settles 
Over  the  nettles. 

Where  is  the  voice  that  I  heard  crying? 
Sand  at  last 
On  the  drifting  mast. 

And  where  is  the  voice  that  I  heard  crying? 
Earth  now 
On  the  busy  brow. 

And  where  is  the  voice  that  I  heard  crying  ?  " 

[Exit  Fidelio. 

SCENE  2 

The  court-room  in  the  palace  at  Fiori,  crowded  with  restless 
and  expectant  people.  The  crowd  is  arranged  on  both  sides 
of;  the  staget  in  such  a  way  that  a  broad  avenue  is  left  in 
the  middle,  leading  from  the  footlights  to  the  back  of  the  stage 
and  gradually  narrowing  to  a  point  at  Beatrice's  throne.  On  the 
extreme  right  and  left  of  the  stage,  along  the  back  of  the  crowd, 
stands  the  guard,  a  large  body  of  armed  soldiers,  at  attention,  in 
double  row.  On  either  side  the  throne  stands  an  armed  soldier. 
As  the  curtain  rises  the  court  is  all  standing  and  looking  off 
stage  in  a  certain  direction.  Enter  the  Queen,  Beatrice,  from 
that  direction,  walks  in,  looking  straight  ahead,  goes  to  the  throne 
and  seats  herself.  The  court  sits.  The  clerk  begins  to  read. 

CLERK.     The  first  case  to  be  heard  is  that  of  Lisa, 
A  widow  with  two  small  children,  who  resides 
Near  the  Duke's  wood,  and  has  been  caught  in  the  act 
Of  cutting  trees  there,  and  hauling  them  home  to  burn. 

BEATRICE.     Stand,  Lisa.    You  are  a  widow,  I  am  told, 
With  two  small  children. 

LISA.  Ay,  your  Majesty, 

Two  little  boys. 


THE  LAMP  AND  THE  BELL  325 

BEATRICE.  I  know  another  widow,  Lisa, 

With  two  small  children,  —  but  hers  are  little  girls. 

Have  you  been  cutting  trees  on  the  Duke's  land? 
LISA.     No,  Majesty.     I  could  not  cut  a  tree. 

I  have  no  axe. 
BEATRICE.  And  are  you  strong  enough 

To  break  a  tree  with  your  hands? 
LISA.  No,  Majesty. 

BEATRICE.     I  see.     What  do  you  do,  then?    There  must  be 

Some  reason  for  this  plaint. 
LISA.  I  gather  wood 

That's  dead, — dried  boughs,  and  underbrush  that's  been 

A  long  time  on  the  ground,  and  drag  it  home. 
BEATRICE.     Have  you  a  woodpile? 
LISA.  Nay.     I  gather  enough 

Each  day  for  the  day's  need.     I  have  no  time 

To  gather  more. 
BEATRICE.     And  does  the  dry  wood  burn 

As  well  as  other  wood? 
LISA.  Oh,  better! 

BEATRICE.  I  see. 

You  would  as  lief,  then,  have  this  wood  you  gather, 

This  dead  wood,  as  a  green  tree  freshly  cut? 
LISA.     Ay,  I  would  liefer  have  it,  Majesty. 

I  need  a  fire  quickly.     I  have  no  time 

To  wait  for  wood  to  season. 
BEATRICE.  You  may  sit  down, 

Lisa.     Is  the  Duke's  agent  here? 
AGENT.  Ay,  here. 

BEATRICE.     What  is  it  the  Duke's  custom  to  have  done 

With  this  dead  wood  on  his  estate? 
AGENT.  He  burns  it, 

Your  Majesty. 
BEATRICE.  You  mean  to  say,  I  think, 

He  pays  a  price  to  have  it  gathered  and  burned. 
AGENT.     Ay,  Majesty. 
BEATRICE.  Where  is  it  burned? 


326  THE  LAMP  AND  THE  BELL 

AGENT.  In  a  clearing. 

BEATRICE.     And  what  is  cooked  upon  it? 
AGENT.  Nothing  is  cooked. 

The  Duke  is  not  a  gypsy. 

[With  irritation. 

Pause.     Slight  titter  in  court-room,  instantly  hushed  into 

profound  silence. 

BEATRICE  (evenly).  If  he  were, 

He  would  be  shrewder,  and  not  be  paying  money 

For  what  this  woman  is  glad  to  do  for  naught. 

Nothing  is  cooked,  and  nobody  is  warmed,  — 

A  most  unthrifty  fire!     Do  you  bid  the  Duke, 

Until  he  show  me  sounder  cause  for  plaint, 

Permit  this  woman  to  gather  unmolested 

Dead  wood  in  his  forest,  and  bear  it  home.  —  Lisa, 

Take  care  you  break  no  half -green  boughs.     The  next  case? 

CLERK.     Is  that  of  Mario,  a  miller,  accused 
Of  stealing  grain.     A  baker,  by  name  Pietro, 
Brings  this  complaint  against  him. 

MESSENGER  (rushing  in  and  up  to  throne).     Majesty, 
Bianca  of  Lagoverde  lies  a-dying, 
And  calls  for  you ! 

BEATRICE  (rising).        She  calls  for  me? 

MESSENGER.  Ay,  Majesty. 

[Beatrice  stands  very  still  a  moment,  then  turns  to  the  towns 
people. 

BEATRICE  (earnestly  and  rapidly).     You  people,  do  you  go 
now  and  live  kindly 

Till  I  return.     I  may  not  stay  to  judge  you; 
Wherefore  I  set  you  free.     For  I  would  rather 
A  knave  should  go  at  large  than  that  a  just  man 
Be  punished.     If  there  be  a  knave  among  you, 
Let  him  live  thoughtfully  till  I  return. 
(She  steps  down  from  the  throne,  and  is  immediately  seized  by 
the  arm  on  either  side  by  the  two  guards  who  have  been  stand 
ing  beside  the  throne) 


I  THE  LAMP  AND  THE  BELL  327 

Why,  what  is  this,  Enrico? 
(Looking  up  at  the  soldier  on  her  right) 
Nay,  it  is  not 

Enrico!  (Looking  to  other  side)  Nor  is  it  Pablo !  How  is  this? 
(From  each  side  of  the  stage  one  row  of  the  double  row  of 
soldiers  detaches  itself,  marches  down  around  the  front  of  the 
stage  and  up  towards  the  throne,  making  an  armed  alley  for 
the  Queen  to  walk  down,  and  entirely  surrounding  the  crowd) 
Nay,  all  new  faces.     So!    Upon  my  word, 
This  is  a  marvelous  sight.  —  Do  you  stand  back 
And  keep  your  fingers  from  me !  —  I  see  you  there, 
Angelo !     Do  not  turn  your  head  aside ! 
And  you,  Filippo !  —  Is  the  sick  hand  better 
I  bound  the  bandage  on?  —  Is't  well  enough 
To  draw  a  sword  against  me?  —  Nay,  I  am  sick. 
I,  that  have  loved  you  as  your  mothers  love  you  — 
And  you  do  this  to  me !    Lead  me  away. 
[The  two  guards  lead  out  the  Queen.     Nobody  else  moves. 
The  townspeople  cower  and  stare.     The  two  little  pages  that 
bore  her  train  as  she  entered  remain  back  of  the  throne,  not 
knowing  what  to  do.     As  she  goes  by  them,  her  train  dragging 
on  the  ground,  the  two  ragged  little  boys  of  Lisa,  the  wood- 
gatherer,  run  out  from  the  group  of  citizens,  pick  up  the  ends 
of  her  train,  and  go  out,  holding  it  up,  one  of  them  with  his 
arm  over  his  eyes. 

SCENE  3 

A  dungeon.     Beatrice  alone,  sitting  on  a  bench,  her  head 
bowed  in  her  hands.     Enter  Guido. 
BEATRICE.     Guido,  is*t  you! 
GUIDO.  Ay,  it  is  I,  my  Queen. 

You  sent  for  me,  an  I  mistake  not? 
BEATRICE.  Ay. 

Guido,  you  will  not  keep  me  when  I  tell  you 

Snow- White  is  dying  and  calls  my  name! 
GUIDO.  I  knew  that. 


328  THE   LAMP  AND  THE   BELL 

BEATRICE.     You  knew  that,  and  you  hold  me  here.     Oh, 

Heaven ! 

What  are  you? 
GUIDO.  I  am  a  man.     You  should  have  thought 

Of  that  before.     I  could  have  been  your  friend 

If  it  had  pleased  you.     Failing  that,  I  am 

Your  enemy.     I  am  too  aware  of  you, 

And  have  been  ever,  to  hold  me  in  at  less. 
BEATRICE.     Guido.     I  beg  of  you  upon  my  knees 

To  let  me  go ! 

GUIDO.  And  why  should  I  do  that? 

BEATRICE.     For  pity's  sake! 

GUIDO.  I  do  not  know  the  word. 

BEATRICE.     Then  for  the  sake  of  my  sworn  hand  and  seal 

Upon  a  paper  yielding  fair  to  you 

This  sovereignty  you  prize.     It  is  to  me 

Little  enough  to-night.     I  give  it  gladly. 
GUIDO.     You  have  no  power  to  give  what  I  have  taken 

Already,  and  hold  upon  my  hand,  Rose-Red. 
BEATRICE.      Oh,  do  not  speak  that  name!      Oh,  Guido, 
Guido, 

I  cannot  suffer  further!    Let  me  go! 

If  only  for  a  moment,  let  me  go ! 

I  will  return,  —  I  will  but  take  her  hand, 

And  come  away !     I  swear  it !     Let  me  go ! 
GUIDO.     On  one  condition  only. 
BEATRICE.  Ay!     'Tis  granted, 

Ere  it  is  spoken ! 
GUIDO.  That  upon  returning 

You  come  to  me,  and  give  yourself  to  me, 

To  lie  in  my  arms  lovingly.     (She  is  stricken  speechless) 

You  hear? 

To  lie  in  my  arms  lovingly. 
BEATRICE.  Oh,  God! 

GUIDO.     It  is  my  only  word. 

BEATRICE.  Oh,  God!    Oh,  God! 

GUIDO.     'Tis  granted? 


THE  LAMP  AND  THE  BELL  329 

BEATRICE.  Nay,  —  I  cannot !     I  will  die 

Instead.     Oh,  God,  to  think  that  she  will  lie  there 

And  call  for  me,  and  I  will  never  come! 
GUIDO.     Good  night. 

[He  goes  to  door. 
BEATRICE  (in  a  quiet  voice).     Guido! 

It  shall  be  as  you  say. 
GUIDO  (rushing  to  her).     Ah,  Beatrice! 
BEATRICE  Nay,  touch  me  not  yet. 

I  will  return.    (She  laughs  like  a  child)    Why,  'tis  a  simple 
matter! 

I  wonder  now  that  even  for  a  moment 

I  held  myself  so  dear!    When  for  her  sake 

All  things  are  little  things !  —  This  foolish  body, 

This  body  is  not  I!    There  is  no  I, 

Saving  the  need  I  have  to  go  to  her! 

SCENE  4 

A  room  at  Lagoverde.  Bianca  lying  in  bed,  ill  to  death. 
The  children  clinging  to  the  bed,  their  nurse  trying  to  draw  them 
away.  Giuletta,  a  maid,  in  the  background.  Possibly  other 
attendants  about. 

LITTLE  ROSE-RED.     Finish  the  story,  mother! 
NURSE.  Come  away,  now! 

LITTLE  SNOW-WHITE.     Finish  the  story! 
BIANCA.  Do  you  go  away  with  nurse 

A  little  while.     You  will  bring  them  back  to  me 

Later? 
NURSE  (weeping).    Ay,  madam. 

[She  goes  out  with  the  children. 
BIANCA.  Later  —  not  much  later, 

I  think.  —  Hear  you  no  sound  of  horses  yet, 

Giulietta,  galloping  this  way? 
GIULIETTA.  Nay,  not  yet. 

BIANCA  (to  herself).    I  will  not  go  until  she  comes.    I  will  not. 

Still,  —  if  I  should  —  Giuletta! 
GIULIETTA  (coming  quickly  to  the  bed).     Ay,  my  mistress! 


330  THE  LAMP  AND  THE  BELL 

BIANCA.     She  will  come,  I  tell  you! 

GIULIETTA.  Ay,  I  doubt  it  not. 

BIANCA.     Ay,  she  will  come.     But  if  she  should  come  late, 

And  I  no  longer  be  here  to  receive  her, 

Show  her  all  courtesy,  I  conjure  you. 

She  will  be  weary,  and  mightily  distraught. 

Make  her  take  wine,  —  and  bring  the  children  to  her. 

And  tell  her,  they  are  hers  now.     She  is  their  mother. 

(Giulietta  starts  to  go  back  to  the  window) 

And  say  to  her  —  wait !  —  I  have  a  message  for  her. 

Say  to  her  this,  Giulietta :  The  foot  stumbles, 

The  hand  hath  its  own  awkward  way;  the  tongue 

Moves  foolishly  in  the  mouth;  but  in  the  heart 

The  truth  lies,  —  and  all's  well  'twixt  her  and  me. 

Can  you  remember  that? 
GIULIETTA.  Ay,  madam,  I  think  so. 

If  not  the  words,  at  least  the  gist  of  it. 
BIANCA.     Forget  it  all,  my  good  child,  but  forget  not: 

All's  well  'twixt  her  and  me. 

GIULIETTA.  Nay,  that  I  have. 

BIANCA.     I  will  sleep  now  a  little.     Do  you  leave  me. 

But  go  not  far.     (She  lies  still  for  a  moment,  then  starts  up) 

I  hear  the  sound  of  hoof -beats! 
GIULIETTA.    Nay,  madam. 
BIANCA.  Ay,  I  tell  you!    I  can  hear  them ! 

My  face  upon  the  pillow  brings  my  ear 

Nearer  the  ground !     She  is  coming !     Open  the  door ! 

[She  kneels  up  in  bed  and  holds  out  her  arms  towards  the  door, 

maintaining   this   position   till   Beatrice   comes.     Giulietta, 

weeping,  opens  the  door,  and  stands  in  it,  shaking  her  head 

sadly. 

GIULIETTA  (suddenly  lifting  her  head  and  listening).     Nay,  it 
is  so !     I  hear  it  now  myself ! 

Ay,  there's  a  horse  upon  the  bridge ! 
BIANCA.  She's  coming! 

Stand  back!     Stand  out  of  the  doorway! 

[Pause. 


THE  LAMP  AND  THE  BELL  331 

SERVANT  (entering).  Majesty, 

The  Queen  is  here. 

Ay,  ay!     Stand  out  of  the  doorway-. 

[Pause. 

QIULIETTA.     She  is  here!    She  is  in  the  court!    She  has 
leapt  from  horse ! 

Madam,  Oh  God  be  praised!     This  way! 
BIANCA.  Sister! 

[Beatrice  enters  in  her  riding  clothes,  leaps  to  the  bed,  Bianca 

throws  her  arms  about  her  neck,  and  dies. 
BEATRICE  (after  a  moment,  looking  down  at  her).    Snow- White ! 

Oh,  no!     Snow- White!     (She  screams)     Ah-h!    Help  me! 

She  is  dying! 

[Attendants  and  nurses  rush  in,  also  the  children. 
LITTLE  SNOW-WHITE.     Mother,  wake  up! 

LITTLE  ROSE-RED.  Come  OUt  of  doOFS ! 

BEATRICE.     Take  them  away.     Snow- White! 

[Leaning  over  the  bed. 
NURSE.     Nay,  it  is  over, 

Madam. 
BEATRICE.  Leave  me.    Leave  me  alone  with  her. 

[Exeunt  all  but  Beatrice.     She  kneels  beside  the  bed. 

SCENE  5 

A  room  at  Lagoverde.     The  next  day.     Beatrice  alone. 
BEATRICE.     In  sooth,  I  do  not  feel  the  earth  so  firm 
Under  my  feet  as  yesterday  it  was. 
All  that  I  loved  have  gone  to  a  far  land, 
And  left  me  here  alone,  save  for  two  children 
And  twenty  thousand  enemies,  and  the  thing 
Of  horror  that's  in  store  for  me.     Almost 
I  feel  my  feet  uprooted  from  the  earth, 
There's  such  a  tugging  at  me  to  be  gone. 
Save  for  your  children  (looking  off  stage  towards  Bianca *s 
room),  'twould  be  simple  enough 


332  THE  LAMP  AND  THE  BELL 

To  lay  me  down  beside  you  in  your  bed, 

And  call  on  Death,  who  is  not  yet  out  of  hearing, 

To  take  me,  too. 

[Enter  Fidelio. 
FIDELIO.  Mistress,  I  have  news  for  you. 

Guido  is  dead! 
BEATRICE.  Is  dead? 

FIDELIO.  Ay,  he  is  dead. 

Dead  of  a  dagger  i'  the  back,  —  and  dead  enough 

For  twenty.     Scarce  were  you  gone  an  hour's  time 

We  came  upon  him  cold.     And  in  a  pool 

Nearby,  the  Lady  Francesca  floating  drowned, 

Who  last  was  seen  a-listening  like  a  ghost 

At  the  door  of  the  dungeon.     'Tis  a  marvelous  thing! 

But  that's  not  all! 

BEATRICE.  Why,  what  more  can  there  be? 

FIDELIO.     Mistress,  in  the  night  the  people  of  Fiori 

Rose  like  a  wind  and  swept  the  Duke's  men  down 

Like  leaves!    Come  home!    Come  home!     We  will  have 
supper 

On  a  flat  web,  behind  a  mulberry  bush, 

Of  milk  and  tarts  and  honey  and  white  bread  — 

All  in  one  day! 
BEATRICE.  There  is  but  half  of  me 

To  hear  your  tidings.     I  would  clap  my  hands  together 

But  one  of  them  is  stricken  from  my  side. 

[Enter  Giulietta. 

GIULIETTA.     Madam. 

BEATRICE.  Ay,  Giulietta. 

GIULIETTA.  Madam,  last  night, 

Before  you  came,  she  bade  me  tell  you  something, 
And  not  forget.     Tis  this :  That  the  foot  stumbles, 
The  hand  doth  awkward  things,  and  the  foolish  tongue 
Says  what  it  would  not  say,  —  but  in  the  heart 
Truth  lies,  —  and  all  is  well  'twixt  her  and  you. 
(She  starts  to  go  out,  and  turns  back  at  the  door) 


THE  LAMP  AND  THE  BELL  333 

She  bade  me  above  all  things  to  forget  not 
The  last :  that  all  is  well  'twixt  her  and  you. 
[Exit. 
BEATRICE  (slowly  and  with  great  content). 

She  is  not  gone  from  me.     Oh,  there  be  places 
Farther  away  than  Death !     She  is  returned 
From  her  long  silence,  and  rings  out  above  me 
Like  a  silver  bell !  —  Let  us  go  back,  Fidelio, 
And  gather  up  the  fallen  stones,  and  build  us 
Another  tower. 

CURTAIN 


REHEARSAL 

CHRISTOPHER  MORLEY 

CHRISTOPHER  MORLEY  was  born  at  Haverford,  Penn 
sylvania,  May  5,  1£90.  He  studied  at  Haverford  College 
and  was  Rhodes  Scholar  1910-1913.  Upon  his  return  to 
America  he  became  associated  with  the  editorial  staffs  of 
Doubleday,  Page  and  Company,  and  the  Curtis  publications. 
He  is  now  conductor  of  The  Bowling  Green,  a  column  in  the 
New  York  Evening  Post. 

Though  better  known  as  an  essayist  Mr.  Morley  has 
written  three  plays:  "Three's  a  Crowd",  "Thursday  Even 
ing",  and  "Rehearsal". 


REHEARSAL 

A  COMEDY  IN  ONE  ACT 


BY  CHRISTOPHER  MORLEY 


Characters 

FREDA         .........  The  Director 

CHRISTINE 


SONIA 

MARJORIE  .........  The  Stage  Carpenter 

and  Property  Man 


COPYBIGHT,   1922,  BY  FRANK  SHAY. 

All  rights  reserved. 

No  performance  of  this  play,  either  amateur  or  professional,  may  \cept  by 

special  arrangement  with  the  author,  who  may  be  addressed  in  care  »''  iny  Postt 

20  Vesey  Street,  New  York  City. 


REHEARSAL 

SCENE.  Rehearsal  of  a  play  to  be  given  by  a  college  dramatic 
club. 

This  is,  as  far  as  the  setting  is  concerned,  the  easiest  play  to 
produce  that  you  ever  heard  of.  It  requires  only  a  bare  stage, 
several  plain  chairs  and  a  small  table.  Whatever  is  the  natural 
and  unadorned  condition  of  your  stage,  leave  it  so.  Nor  are  any 
special  costumes  necessary:  the  characters  may  attire  themselves 
as  suits  their  fancy  and  condition  in  life.  The  scene  represents 
a  rehearsal  of  an  amateur  play  —  /  mean,  a  play  performed  by 
amateurs.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  the  play  they  are  at  work  on  is 
supposed  to  be  one  of  those  Irish  peasantry  things.  I  have 
imagined  the  characters  as  being  college  girls,  in  whom  is  ap 
parent  that  pleasing  mixture  of  hilarity  and  importance  char 
acteristic  of  the  sex  in  youth.  However,  it  being  to  the  author's 
interest  that  this  play  should  be  performed  as  frequently  as 
possible,  I  will  remark  that  by  the  change  of  a  word  or  so  here 
and  there  it  is  equally  valid  for  girls'  schools,  or  clubs  of  high- 
spirited  ladies. 

The  house  lights  having  been  turned  off,  and  the  footlights  on, 
as  usual,  the  audience,  eager  to  be  entertained,  attentively  waits 
the  rise  of  the  curtain.  But  before  the  curtain  goes  up,  the  gutter 
is  again  darkened;  so  that  for  a  moment  the  audience  thinks 
some  mistake  has  been  made.  This  impression  is  perhaps  con 
firmed  when  the  curtain  immediately  rises  upon  the  naked  stage, 
which  is  adequately  lit  from  above,  but  seems  rather  gloomy 
without  the  usual  shine  of  the  footlights. 

Enter  Freda,  the  director  and  manager,  a  brisk  young  person 
who  enjoys  her  responsibility  and  takes  it  seriously.  She 
carries  a  typescript,  which  she  lays  on  the  table  at  the  front  of  the 
stage,  —  the  sacred  little  table  which  still  holds  an  empty  jug  and  a 
glass  to  remind  one  that  not  long  ago  some  British  celebrity  spent 


340  REHEARSAL 


a  happy  evening  lecturing  there.  Freda  moves  the  table  to  one 
side,  and  rapidly  begins  to  arrange  the  chairs  (which  are  stand 
ing  in  a  row  at  the  back)  in  a  calculated  pattern.  She  puts 
four  of  them  close  together  toward  the  back  of  the  stage;  and  two, 
a  little  distance  apart,  one  behind  the  other,  toward  the  right 
side;  two,  similarly,  toward  the  left.  Two  or  three  chairs  she 
places  with  thoughtful  precision  in  other  places  within  the  area 
thus  marked  out. 

Enter  Christine,  Barbara,  and  Sonia,  all  carrying  scripts. 
FREDA.     Hullo,     Where's  Gertrude? 
CHRISTINE.     She'll  be  here,  I  guess. 
FREDA.     She'd  better  be,  or  I'll  get  some  one  else  to  do  her 

part.     She  doesn't  seem  to  realize  we've  got  to  play  this 

thing  a  week  from  to-night. 
BARBARA.     Horrid  thought ! 
FREDA.     Well,  while  we  await  the  prima  donna,  let's  get  to 

work.     Now  you  know  your  lines,  we  can  develop  some 

business. 
SONIA.     I  wish  you'd  picked  out  some  other  play;  this  is  so 

dreadfully  gloomy.     It'll  put  the  audience  into  a  morbid 

melancholy. 
CHRISTINE.     Yes,  and  there's  some  pretty  strong  stuff  in  it, 

too.     My  father  and  mother  are  going  to  be  here,  and 

really,  I  think  one  ought  to  be  careful  about  saying  some 

of  these  things  before  parents  — 
FREDA.     You  ought  to  be  glad  it's  gloomy.     People  don't 

respect  you  if  you  play  comedy.     This  kind  of  thing  is 

much    more    artistic.     Besides,    don't    blame    me.     The 

Professor  of  English  Literature  chose  it;  I  didn't. 
CHRISTINE.     I  know  —  but  just  looking  at  things  from  the 

parents'  standpoint,  English  Literature  is  awfully  out 
spoken  sometimes. 
SONIA.     I'm  glad  my  people  live  so  far  away  there's  no 

chance  of  their  coming  to  the  show. 
BARBARA.     Think  of  me,  I  have  to  play  the  stricken  old 

father,  brooding  over  his  shame.     You  try  being  a  strickeu 

old  father  — 


REHEARSAL  341 


FREDA.     Come  now,  we're  wasting  time. 

[Enter  Marjorie,  carrying  a  hammer,  a  paint  pot  and  brush, 

electric  bulbs,  a  roll  of  canvas  and  a  dingy  old  suit  of  masculine 

garments. 
MARJORIE.     Look  here,  what  the  deuce  am  I  going  to  do  for 

*  moonlight  through  cottage  window'?     I  can't  get  an  arc 

light  anywhere.     D'you  suppose  ordinary  frosted  bulbs 

will,  do? 
FREDA.     Don't  bother  me.     That's  your  affair.     Lord  knows 

I've  got  enough  to  manage. 
MARJORIE.     Well,  will  these  do  for  the  stricken  old  father? 

[Holds  out  horrible  old  trousers  and  coat. 
FREDA.     Hurrah!     Just  the  thing.     (Takes  trousers  and  holds 

them  against  Barbara,  who  views  them  with  much  distaste) 

A  perfect  fit  ! 

BARBARA.     Have  I  got  to  wear  those  things? 
MARJORIE.     I  got  them  from  the  janitor. 
FREDA.     Better  put  them  on  right  away,  and  get  used  tov 

them. 

[Barbara  shudders. 

MARJORIE.     Yes,  atmosphere,  local  color  — 
BARBARA.     From  the  local  colored  man.     No  thanks. 
,  [She  deposits  trousers  gingerly  at  one  side  of  stage. 

F         '  crtrudc,  carrying  script. 
GERTRUDE.     Sorry  to  be  late. 

[Marjorie  goes  rear  of  stage,  and  occupies  herself  quietly  with 

pa.-.i  and  canvas  while  the  rehearsal  proceeds. 
FRED/,.     All  right,  now  we  can  go  ahead.     I've  put  these 

>.  -h;t.        o  show  essentials  of  ^cenery.     These  (indicating 

i  the  back)  are  the  hearth.     This  (to  two  chairs  at 

)  is  a  door;    this  (to  two  chairs  on  other  side)  is 

Jfer  door.     This  (to  another  chair,  toward  the  rear)  is 

this          duw  where  the  moonlight  comes  in.     And  here 
ter  chair)  is  the  wheel  -chair  where  the  stricken  old 


sits  disconsolate. 
•;.;.     There  are  going  to  be  some  stricken  parents  in 
<>rice,  too. 


342  REHEARSAL 


FREDA  (ignoring  her).  Now  get  the  scene  well  in  mind. 
(Reads  from  her  script)  "A  poor  cottage  in  the  Irish  bogs. 
At  the  back,  a  faint  glimmer  of  a  scanty  fire  of  peat  on  the 
hearth,  with  a  pile  of  kelp  drying  beside  it.'* 

MARJORIE.  Where  am  I  going  to  get  any  kelp?  What  is 
kelp,  anyway? 

FREDA.    Seaweed. 

MARJORIE.     I  wonder  if  spinach  would  be  all  right? 

FREDA  (continues  to  read).  "Through  rear  window,  a  clear 
beam  of  moonlight.  In  a  wheel-chair  by  a  lamp  sits 
Shawn  O'Connell,  a  stricken  old  man,  reading  the  Bible. 
The  setting  indicates  an  atmosphere  of  extreme  wretched 
ness  and  misery.  From  the  shadows  near  the  hearth,  who  3 
Norah  has  flung  herself  prostrate  in  despair,  comes  au 
occasional  low  keening." 

(Christine  and  Sonia  look  humorously  at  Gertrude,  who  play* 
the  part  of  Norah) 
Are  you  ready?     Places! 

(Barbara  sits  down  in  one  of  the  chairs;    Gertrude,  with  c, 
shame-faced  air,  lies  down  on  the  chairs  assembled  at  th* 
back.     Christine  and  Sonia  retire  to  one  side  of  the  stage,  of 
the  chair-marked  area,  and  solemnly  consult  their  scripts. 
Freda  sits  down  at  the  little  table,  on  the  other  side  oj 
stage) 
Curtain ! 

(There  is  .?  sh-.  ;-/•  pause,  while  Barbara  gazes  pensively  at  h^ 
hands,   ic'uch  site  holds  spread  to  represent  a  large  book. 
Gertrude  utters  a  low  moan.     It  is  not  a  success) 
You'll  have  to  keen  b  t!ter  >b  Tiiro«-  It   Httle 

agony  into  it. 

GERTRUDE  (sits  up).  Can't  we  have  the  footligh  >n?  I 
can  do  much  better  then.  It  seems  to  make  it  in?  %  real. 

FREDA.     Good  idea.     Chris,  switch  'em  on. 

(Christine  exit.     The  footlights  go  on,  and  Christine  i  ^rns)  • 
We've   got   to   get   into   the   spirit   of   this   thii.;;'      Try 
to  imagine  the  audience  out  there.     (She  waves  ton  'ird  the 
auditorium)     Imagine  the  place  crowded  with  ii't<  Ui^ent 


REHEARSAL  343 


faces  —  proud  parents,  interested  friends,  hopeful  young 

men  — 
-BARBARA.     I'm  damned  if  I  want  to  wear  trousers  before  a 

mixed  audience  — 
FREDA.     Don't  be  so  mid-Woodrovian.     Look  here,  I  told 

you  to  bring  something  to  use  as  a  Bible.     What  did  you 

make  me  director  for  if  you're  not  going  to  obey  orders? 

Wait  a  minute,  I'll  find  something. 

[She  rushes  off. 
GERTRUDE.     Tell  me  if  this  sounds  any  better. 

[She  utters  several  throbbing  tremulous  wails. 
CHRISTINE.     Somehow  it  doesn't  seem  to  carry  conviction. 
SONIA.     You  must  try  to  imagine  terrible  things.     Imagine 

you've  flunked -Physics. 
GERTRUDE.     The  trouble  is,  it's  so  hard  to  find  any  place  to 

practice  keening.     I  tried  it  in  my  room  late  at  night,  and 

the  watchman  sent  for  a  doctor. 

MARJORIE.     I  wish  Freda  wouldn't  insist  on  that  moonlight. 
GERTRUDE.     I  simply  can't  keen  in  cold  blood.     It'll  be  all 

right  when  the  audience  is  here. 
SONIA.     You're  too  self-conscious.     You'll  never  be  a  great 

actress. 
GERTRUDE.     You'd  be  self-conscious  too  if  you  had  to  play 

this  part  before  parents  and  younger  brothers. 
CHRISTINE.     Younger  brothers  are  the  devil.     They're  as 

bad  as  Doctor  Freud. 
SONIA.     Write  and  tell  them  there's  smallpox  in  town. 

[Reenter  Freda,  carrying  large  telephone  directory. 
T  £EDA  (to  Barbara).     Here  you  are  —  the  Telephone  Book. 

It's  the  only  thing  I  could  find.     Come  now,  Places! 
BARBARA  (produces  a  clay  pipe).     I  thought  that  if  I  used 

this  pipe,  it  would  help  me  to  get  the  illusion. 

[Puts  it  in  her  mouth  and  sits  down  with  the  directory. 
FREDA.     Curtain ! 

[Rirbara  sits  in  the  "wheel-chair",  turning  over  the  leaves  of 
t)  P  directory,  and  awkwardly  holding  the  pipe  in  her  mouth, 
(jerti  ude  is  lying,  face  down,  with  her  head  buried  in  her  arms, 


344  REHEARSAL 


on  the  chairs  at  the  back.     She  utters  a  dire  dreadful  moaning 
occasionally. 

BARBARA.     Has  Herself  come  yet? 

GERTRUDE  (sobbing) .    Not  yet.    Nor  never  will,  I'm  thinking. 

BARBARA  (gravdy,  with  the  tremulous  voice  of  old  age,  but  having 
great  trouble  to  keep  the  pipe  in  her  mouth  while  she  speaks). 
Fifty  year  and  five  it  is  that  I'm  living  in  this  place,  and 
never  before  now  did  shame  come  down  upon  the  home  of 
the  O'Connell. 

(Gertrude  utters  only  a  low  wail) 

Be  leaving  off  your  keening,  my  girl,  I'll  be  having  no 
stomach  to  my  supper.     Is  that  broth  cooked? 

GERTRUDE  (gets  up  languidly  and  pretends  to  look  at  the  hearth). 
No,  father. 

BARBARA.  Come  away  out  of  the  darkness  now,  and  let  me 
be  seeing  you. 

(Gertrude  comes  forward,  slowly  and  shamefully,  and  crouches 
at  Barbara's  feet.  Barbara  tries  to  light  her  pipe) 
See  how  all  the  names  are  written  here  in  the  Book  — 
names  of  the  O'Connell,  all  numbered  in  the  Good 
Book.  (Christine  and  Sonia  cannot  restrain  a  giggle) 
Thirteen  childer  and  never  a  word  of  shame  agin  one  of 
them.  Francey,  Padraic,  Finn,  Bridget,  Cathleen,  Dennis. 
Think  of  Dennis,  now,  who  killed  three  Englishmen  in  one 
Sunday.  This  has  been  a  proud  house,  surely. 

GERTRUDE.  I'm  thinking  that  the  broth  will  soon  be  ready, 
father. 

BARBARA.  God  be  praised,  I'm  after  keeping  my  appetite 
in  spite  of  all  this  sorrow.  (Points  to  page  in  the  book) 
Thirteen  childer,  six  dead  of  the  bog  fever,  three  drowned 
in  the  fishing,  two  in  jail  for  the  republic,  one  gone  to 
America  —  all  numbered  in  the  Book. 

CHRISTINE  (to  Sonia).     Call  Columbus  8200. 

FREDA  (angrily).     Shhhh! 

BARBARA  (in  her  own  voice).  I've  forgotten  my  lines  It 
isn't  fair  of  the  author  to  give  any  one  a  speech  as  long  as 
this  one. 


REHEARSAL  345 


GERTRUDE.  It  doesn't  matter.  The  audience  never  listens 
to  the  first  five  minutes.  They're  busy  climbing  over 
each  other's  feet. 

FREDA  (rapping  on  table).  How  do  you  expect  to  get  this 
thing  across  if  you  make  a  joke  out  of  it? 

BARBARA.  I  simply  can't  talk  with  this  pipe  in  my  mouth. 
It's  funny  —  I've  often  seen  men  do  it. 

FREDA  (reading  from  her  script).     "I  am  an  old  man  —  " 

BARBARA.  Oh,  yes.  (Resumes  her  part)  I  am  an  old  man, 
and  shamed  in  my  own  house.  I  am  after  looking  for  the 
third  chapter  of  Isaiah.  Does  Isaiah  come  after  Jeremiah 
or  before  it?  I  never  can  remember. 

GERTRUDE.  Yourself  had  thirteen  childer,  father,  and  if 
only  one  goes  to  hell,  it's  no  bad  proportion  at  all  — 

BARBARA.  Whisht,  whisht,  Norah  —  is  it  the  Bad  Place 
Yourself  is  speaking  of?  Don't  be  naming  that  place 
to  an  old  stricken  man  that  maybe  will  have  had 
sins  of  his  own  to  be  shriven.  It's  perished  with 
hunger  I  am. 

GERTRUDE  (rises,  goes  to  chairs  at  the  back  and  stoops  over  the 
imaginary  fire) .  Which  is  it  that  is  troubling  you  more, 
father;  the  shame  or  the  supper? 

•  BARBARA  (absently  turning  over  pages  of  the  directory).  The 
third  chapter  of  Isaiah.  There's  something  about  mantles 
and  wimples  and  crisping  pins. 

GERTRUDE.  Crisping  pins,  is  it?  Devil  a  crisping  pin  did 
I  ever  see  in  this  house. 

BARBARA  (reads).  "Because  the  daughters  of  Zion  walk 
with  stretched  forth  necks  and  wanton  eyes,  walking  and 
mincing  as  they  go,  and  making  a  tinkling  with  their 
feet.  .  .  .  the  Lord  will  take  away  the  bravery  of  their 
tinkling  ornaments  ...  the  chains  and  the  bracelets  and 
the  mufflers,  the  bonnets  and  the  ornaments  of  the  legs 
.  .  .  the  rings  and  nose  jewels,  the  changeable  suits  of 
apparel,  and  the  mantles  and  the  wimples  and  the  crisp 
ing  pins.  ...  And  it  shall  come  to  pass,  that  instead  of 
sweet  smell  there  shall  be  stink;  and  instead  of  well-set 


346  REHEARSAL 


hair  baldness;  and  instead  of  a  stomacher  —  "  —  Sure, 
Norah,  isn't  that  broth  ready? 

GERTRUDE.     Here  it  is,  father. 

[Comes  forward,  carrying  an  imaginary  bowl,  which  she  sets 
down  on  an  imaginary  table  beside  Barbara,  and  pretends  to 
set  out  imaginary  dishes,  spoons,  etc. 

FREDA  (interrupting).  That's  rotten!  Barbara,  you've  got 
to  be  more  tragic.  Read  that  with  more  feeling. 

BARBARA.  I  don't  like  reading  the  Old  Testament.  It's  — 
well,  it's  so  vulgar  — 

FREDA  (going  to  her).  Let  me  show  you  how  that  ought  to 
go.  Remember  you're  a  broken  old  man.  (Takes  the 
directory  and  sits  down  in  Barbara's  chair;  assumes  a 
quavering  and  senile  solemnity,  and  pretends  to  read  from 
the  book,  improvising  the  speech  from  memory)  Because 
the  daughters  of  Zion  walk  with  stretched  forth  legs  and 
wanton  stomachers  the  Lord  will  take  away  John  J. 
Wimple  plumber  and  steamfitter  and  instead  of  crisping 
pins  there  shall  be  Henry  Wiesenfeldt  Audubon  6543. 
(Rises)  There,  do  you  see?  More  pathos! 

MARJORIE.  Just  a  minute!  I  hadn't  heard  about  all  these 
mufflers  and  wimples  and  crisping  pins  —  they  aren't 
actual  props,  are  they? 

GERTRUDE.     No,  no,  you  poor  fish.     They're  only  mentioned. 

MARJORIE.  Well,  how  was  I  to  know?  Freda  never  gave 
me  a  copy  of  the  script  to  look  over.  If  anything  goes 
wrong,  it  won't  be  my  fault. 

FREDA.  Attention,  please!  Now  go  on  with  it  from  there. 
[Barbara  resumes  her  place  in  the  chair. 

BARBARA.  Where  were  we?  These  interruptions  get  my 
goat. 

FREDA.     "Here  it  is,  father." 

GERTRUDE.  Here  it  is,  father.  (Again  brings  imaginary 
soup  from  the  rear,  and  serves  it  as  before.  Barbara  pretends 
to  spoon  it  up  with  gusto)  Leave  off  feeding  till  I  fix  your 
napkin.  Herself  might  be  coming  in,  and  you  wouldn't 
want  to  be  all  speckled  with  the  soup  — 


REHEARSAL  347 


BARBARA.  There's  darker  stains  than  spilling  a  little  broth 
on  your  breastbone.  Yourself  might  be  thinking  of  the 
daughters  of  Zion. 

GERTRUDE.  Perhaps  the  daughters  of  Zion  were  not  brought 
up  all  alone  in  the  bogs,  with  no  company  but  the  moon 
light  and  an  old  man  dripping  his  soup.  It's  more  of  soup 
you  are  thinking  than  of  salvation.  Surely  it's  bitter. 

BARBARA  (after  a  pause).  It  is  bitter.  You've  maybe 
dropped  some  of  the  kelp  in  it.  (A  pause)  I'll  be  telling 
you  the  truth,  I'm  destroyed  altogether  with  thirst.  If 
you'd  be  slipping  over  to  the  shebeen  to  bring  me  a  dram  — 

GERTRUDE  (goes  to  the  chair  that  represents  a  window,  and 
pretends  to  look  out).  Here  comes  Herself  now,  God  help 
us,  and  a  foreigner  with  her.  Be  easy  and  go  on  with  your 
supper.  I'll  be  passing  into  the  loft.  (She  starts  to  the 
chair-doorway,  right,  and  then  impulsively  returns  to  Barbara. 
Piteously)  Oh,  Daddy,  you'll  not  be  thinking  too  hard 
of  your  Norah? 

BARBARA  (still  eating).     It's  grand  fine  soup. 
'(Gertrude  goes  through  chair-doorway,  right,  and  stands  near 
Freda.     Christine  and  Sonia  come  to  chair-doorway,  left,  and 
Sonia  taps  on  the  stage  with  her  foot,  to  represent  knocking 
at  the  door) 

Who's  that,  God  help  us?     (Christine  and  Sonia  enter) 
Ah,  it's  yourself,  Mrs.  O'Toole,  and  a  foreigner  with  you. 

CHRISTINE.     Yes.  -  An  English  lady,  God  help  her. 

BARBARA.     Come  in  and  be  set. 

CHRISTINE.  Surely  it's  quare  and  cold  to-night,  Shawn, 
and  the  bogs  in  the  moonshine  as  white  as  soap. 

BARBARA.     Yes,  I've  finished  my  soup,  thank  you  kindly. 

CHRISTINE.  A  sorrowful  night  to  be  lying  drowned  in  the 
bogs,  I'm  thinking.  I  mind  the  time  when  Katie 
T,O'Shaughnessy  perished  herself  in  the  marsh.  She  floated 
'face  under,  God  help  her,  and  they  said  it  was  because  she 
was  ashamed  to  look  her  Maker  in  the  face.  Indeed  I 
don't  wonder,  with  nothing  on  her  but  a  shift. 

BARBARA.     The  men  folk  float  face  upwards,  Mrs.  O'Toole. 


348  REHEARSAL 


CHRISTINE.  To  be  sure  you  ought  to  know  the  rights  of  it, 
what  with  three  sons  floating  in  at  the  high  tide.  (To 
Sonia)  We  waked  them  all  together,  and  Father  Daly 
ran  short  on  candles. 

SONIA.  Mr.  O'Connell,  I'm  afraid  I  have  dreadful  news  for 
you  — 

BARBARA.  Indeed,  Ma'am,  bad  news  is  an  old  friend  in  this 
house  of  shame.  (Plaintively)  If  I  had  a  drop  of  spirits 
it  would  be  a  consolation. 

FREDA  (interrupting).  Fine!  That's  fine!  (The  actors  re 
lax,  and  stand  at  ease)  I  don't  think  your  Irish  brogue  is 
very  good,  but  you're  beginning  to  get  the  spirit  of  the 
thing. 

CHRISTINE.  Yes,  if  we  can  do  it  like  this  I  think  the  audience 
ought  to  be  sufficiently  depressed. 

FREDA.  We  won't  need  to  go  over  the  part  where  the  young 
Englishman's  body  is  brought  in,  and  Norah  commits 
suicide.  By  the  way,  Marjorie,  what  are  you  going  to  do 
for  the  young  Englishman's  body? 

MARJORIE.  Oh,  I'm  going  to  play  that  myself.  My  only 
chance  of  glory. 

FREDA.  All  right,  then  —  we'll  take  it  again  from  the  be 
ginning  down  to  where  Sonia  and  Christine  come  in. 

SONIA.  I  don't  think  that's  fair.  You  never  give  me  a 
chance  to  rehearse  the  only  decent  bit  I  have. 

BARBARA.  Oh,  rot,  Sonia !  Your  stuff  is  a  cinch.  You 
don't  even  have  to  talk  Irish. 

GERTRUDE.  Yes,  for  Heaven's  sake  let's  do  that  first  part 
again  while  we've  got  it  hot.  If  I  don't  get  used  to  watch 
ing  Barbara  I  shall  burst  into  yells  of  laughter  — 

BARBARA.  Considering  I  have  the  rottenest  part  in  the  whole 
show,  I  think  I  do  fairly  well. 

SONIA.  Some  people  are  certainly  hard  to  please.  Your 
part  is  the  only  one  with  a  chance  for  any  real  acting. 
Pretty  fat,  I  call  it. 

CHRISTINE.  I  agree  with  Sonia.  We  ought  to  rehearse  the 
last  half  as  often  as  we  can.  That  bit  where  I  have  to 


REHEARSAL  349 


break  the  news  to  the  old  man  needs  some  doing.     That 

seems  to  me  the  real  crux  of  the  play,  and  I  don't  feel  at 
,  all  sure  of  it  yet. 
MARJORIE.     I  thought  you  were  going  to  check  up  that  list 

of  props  with  me.     Here  I've  been  hanging  around  — 
FREDA.     Ye  gods,  you  girls  think  of  no  one  but  yourselves. 

Can't  you  forget  your  own  parts  for  a  moment  and  think 

of  the  good  of  the  show? 
SONIA.     I  don't  care,  you've  skimped  my  part  right  along, 

and  never  give  me  a  decent  chance  to  rehearse.     I  know 

damn  well  you  want  me  to  flivver  — 
BARBARA.     Sohia  can  have  my  part  whenever  she  wants  it. 

I'm  fed  up  with  the  stricken  old  parent  and  his  house  of 

shame  — 
GERTRUDE  (looking  at  her  wrist  watch).     Well,  what's  the 

dope?     I  haven't  got  all  day  — 
MARJORIE.     You  people  make  me  tired.     All  wanting  to 

grab  off  the  footlight  stuff.     Suppose  some  of  you  lend  me 

a  hand  in  building  the  scenery. 
FREDA    (angrily).     Who's   directing   this   play,   I'd   like   to 

know?     You  put  it  up  to  me,  didn't  you?     Somebody's 

got  to  run  things  — 
CHRISTINE.     It  was  asinine  to  pick  out  a  fool  play  like  this. 

Why  not  something  with  some  fun  in  it? 
FREDA.     Who  ever  heard  of  a  one-act  play  with  any  fun  in 

it?     They  don't  write  'em.     A  one-act  play  has  to  be 

artistic  — 
SONIA.     All  I  can  say  is,  I  hate  to  see  an  innocent  audience 

suffer. 
GERTRUDE.     I  know  I'll  never  be  able  to  live  down  this  house 

of  shame  business  with  my  young  brothers.     They'll  be 

kidding  me  about  it  for  the  next  five  years. 
SONIA.     Come  on  now,  all  together  —  can't  we  do  something 

else  instead?     Honestly,  Freda,  we'd  rehearse  all  night 

for  the  next  week  if  you'll  choose  something  really  decent  — 
FREDA.     Don't  be  absurd.     The  announcements  have  gone 

out. 


350  REHEARSAL 


SONIA.     I  bet  the  damn  thing  will  be  a  hideous  failure  — 

FREDA.  Now  let's  be  sensible.  I  know  exactly  how  you  all 
feel.  Putting  on  a  play  is  just  like  going  to  the  dentist  — 
the  worst  part  is  beforehand.  When  the  fatal  evening 
comes,  no  one  will  suspect  the  agony  we've  been  through. 
I  bet  the  house  will  give  us  a  big  hand  —  even  the  younger 
brothers. 

BARBARA.  Freda's  right.  Come  on,  children,  a  little  cour 
age! 

FREDA.  We'll  do  the  second  part  of  the  play  at  the  next 
rehearsal.  This  time  we'd  better  stick  to  what  we've 
been  doing,  and  get  it  set.  Places! 

BARBARA.  Give  the  stricken  old  father  time  to  light  his  pipe. 
[As  she  fumbles  with  the  pipe,  the  others  take  their  positions  — 
Freda  at  the  little  table;  Marjorie  at  the  rear;  Christine  and 
Sonia  down-stage,  left;  Gertrude  on  the  chairs  toward  the 
back;  and  Barbara  then  sits  down  with  the  telephone  directory. 

FREDA.     Curtain ! 

[And,  as  Barbara  turns  over  the  leaves  of  the  book,  and 
Gertrude  utters  her  first  "keen",  the  curtain  falls. 


BEFORE  BREAKFAST 

EUGENE  G.  O'NEILL 

EUGENE  G.  O'NEILL  was  born  in  New  York  City,  October 
16,  1888,  the  son  of  James  O'Neill,  the  distinguished 
American  actor.  He  has  been  seaman,  laborer,  newspaper 
man  and  dramatist.  Mr.  O'Neill  was  one  of  the  original 
members  of  the  Provincetown  Players,  the  group  of  players 
and  authors  who  have  the  honor  of  presenting  most  of  his 
plays  to  the  public. 

Mr.  O'Neill's  published  plays  are  as  follows:  "Thirst  and 
Other  One-act  Plays",  containing  "Thirst";  "The  Web", 
"Warnings",  "Fog",  and  "Recklessness."  Badger,  Boston, 
1914;  "Before  Breakfast",  a  Play  in  One  Act.  Shay,  New 
York,  1916;  "The  Moon  of  the  Caribbees  and  Six  Other 
Plays  of  the  Sea",  containing:  "Moon  of  the  Caribbees", 
"Bound  East  for  Cardiff",  "The  Long  Voyage  Home",  "In 
the  Zone",  "He",  "Where  the  Cross  is  Made",  "The  Rope." 
Boni  and  Liveright,  New  York,  1919;  "Beyond  the  Hori 
zon",  a  Play  in  Three  Acts.  Boni  and  Liveright,  New  York, 
1920;  "Gold",  a  Play  in  Four  Acts.  Boni  and  Liveright, 
New  York,  1920;  "The  Emperor  Jones"  (8  scenes),  "DifT- 
rent"  (3  acts),  "The  Straw"  (3  acts),  Boni  and  Liveright, 
New  York,  1921;  "The  Emperor  Jones",  a  Play  in  Eight 
Scenes.  Stewart  Kidd,  Cincinnati,  1921. 


BEFORE  BREAKFAST 

A  PLAY  IN  ONE  ACT 


BY  EUGENE  G.  O'NEILL 

(1916) 


"Before  Breakfast"  was  originally  produced  by  the  Prov- 
incetown  Players,  in  1916. 

Original  Cast 

MRS.  ROWLAND Mary  Pyne 

ALFRED,  her  Husband  (not  seen) .     .      .  Eugene  G.  O'Neill 


COPTBIOHT,   1916,   BT  EUGENE  G.  O'NEILL. 

Att  rights  reserved. 


No  performance  of  this  play,  either  amateur  or  professional,  may  be  given  except  by 
special  arrangement  with  the  author,  who  may  be  addressed  at  Provincetown,  Muss. 


BEFORE  BREAKFAST 

SCENE:  A  small  room  serving  both  as  kitchen  and  dining 
room  in  aflat  on  Christopher  Street,  New  York  City.  In  the 
tear,  iO  the  right,  a  door  leading  to  the  outer  hallway.  On  the 
left  of  the  doorway,  a  sink,  and  a  two-burner  gas  stove.  Over 
the  stove,  and  extending  to  the  left  wall,  a  wooden  closet  for 
dishes,  etc.  On  the  left,  two  windows  looking  out  on  afire  escape 
where  several  potted  plants  are  dying  of  neglect.  Before  the 
windows,  a  table  covered  with  oilcloth.  Two  cane-bottomed 
chairs  are  placed  by  the  table.  Another  stands  against  the  wall 
to  the  right  of  door  in  rear.  In  the  right  wall,  rear,  a  doorway 
leading  into  a  bedroom.  Farther  forward,  different  articles  of 
a  mans  and  a  woman  s  clothing  are  hung  on  pegs.  A  clothes 
line  is  strung  from  the  left  corner,  rear,  to  the  right  wall,  forward. 
A  mans  underclothes  are  thrown  over  the  line. 

It  is  about  eight-thirty  in  the  morning  of  a  fine,  sunshiny 
dan  in  the  early  fall. 

Mrs.  Rowland  enters  from  the  bedroom,  yawning,  her  hands 
still  busy  putting  the  finishing  touches  on  a  slovenly  toilet  by 
sticking  hairpins  into  her  hair  which  is  bunched  up  in  a  drab- 
colored  mass  on  top  of  her  round  head.  She  is  of  medium 
height  and  inclined  to  a  shapeless  stoutness,  accentuated  by  her 
formless  blue  dress,  shabby  and  worn.  Her  face  is  characterless, 
with  small  regular  features  and  eyes  of  a  nondescript  blue. 
There  is  a  pinched  expression  about  her  eyes  and  nose  and  her 
weak,  spiteful  mouth.  She  is  in  her  early  twenties  but  looks 
much  older. 

She  comes  to  the  middle  of  the  room  and  yawns,  stretching 
her  arms  to  their  full  length.  Her  drowsy  eyes  stare  about  the 
room  with  the  irritated  look  of  one  to  whom  a  long  sleep  has  not 
been  a  long  rest.  She  goes  wearily  to  the  clothes  hanging  on  the 
right  and  takes  an  apron  from  a  hook.  She  ties  it  about  her 


356  BEFORE  BREAKFAST 

waist,  giving  vent  to  an  exasperated  "damn"  when  the  knot 

fails  to  obey  her  clumsy,  fat  fingers.     Finally  gets  it  tied  and 

goes  slowly  to  the  gas  stove  and  lights  one  burner.     She  fills  the 

coffee  pot  at  the  sink  and  sets  it  over  the  flame.     Then  slumps 

down  into  a  cttavTInfiJie  table  and  put*  a  hand  over  her  forehead 

as  if  she  were  suffering  from   headache.     Suddenly  her  face 

brightens  as  though  she  had  remembered  something,  and  she 

casts  a  quick  glance  at  the  dish  closet;  then  looks  sharply  at  the 

bedroom  door  and  listens  intently  for  a  moment  or  so. 

MRS.  ROWLAND  (in  a  low  voice).     Alfred!    Alfred!     (There  is 

no  answer  from  the  next  room  and  she  continues  suspiciously 

in  a  louder  tone)     You  needn't  pretend  you're  asleep. 

(There  is  no  reply  to  this  from  the  bedroom,  and,  reassured, 

she  get-s  up  from  her  chair  and  tiptoes  cautions!)/  to  the  dish 

closet.     She  slowly  opens  one  door,  taking  great  care  to  make 

no  noise,  and  slides  out,  from  their  hiding  place  behind  the 

dishes,  a  lottle  of^Gordon  gin  and  a  glass.     In  doing  so  she 

disturbs  the  top  dish,  which  rattles  a  little.     At  this  sound  she 

starts  guiltily  and  looks  with  sulky  defiance  at  the  doorway 

to  the  next  room) 

(Her  voice  trembling)     Alfred ! 

(After  a  pause,  during  which  she  listens  for  any  sound,  she 
takes  the  glass  and  pours  out  a  large  drink  and  gulps  it 
down;  then  hastily  returns  the  bottle  and  glass  to  their  hiding 
place.  She  closes  the  closet  door  with  the  same  care  as  she  had 
opened  it,  and,  heaving  a  great  sigh  of  relief,  sinks  down  into 
her  chair  again\  The  large  dose  of  alcohol  she  has  taken  has 
an  almost  immediate  effect.  Her  features  become  more 
animated,  she  seems  to  gather  energy,  and  she  looks  at  the 
bedroom  door  unth  a  hard,  vindictive  smile  un  her  lips.  Her 
eyes  glance  quickly  about  the  room  and  arc  fixed  on  a  mans 
coat  and  vest  which  hang  from  a  hook  at  right.  She  moves 
stealthily  over  to  the  open  doorway  and  stands  there,  out  of 
sight  of  any  one  inside,  listening  for  any  movement  from 
within) 

(Calling  in  a  half-whisper)     Alfred! 
(Again  there  is  no  reply.     With  a  swift  movement  she  takes 


BEFORE  BREAKFAST  357 

the  coat  and  vest  from  the  hook  and  returns  with  them  to  her 
chair.  She  sits  down  and  takes  the  various  articles  out  of 
each  pocket  but  quickly  puts  them  back  again.  At  last,  in 
the  inside  pocket  of  the  vest,  she  finds  a  letter) 
(Looking  at  the  handwriting  —  slowly  to  herself)  Hmm !  I 
knew  it. 

(She  opens  the  letter  and  reads  it.  At  first  her  expression  is 
one  of  hatred  and  rage,  but  as  she  goes  on  to  the  end  it  changes 
to  one  of  triumphant  malignity.  She  remains  in  deep  thought 
for  a  moment,  staring  before  her,  the  letter  in  her  hands,  a 
cruel  smile  on  her  lips.  Then  she  puts  the  letter  back  in  the 
pocket  of  the  vest,  and  still  careful  not  to  awaken  the  sleeper, 
hangs  the  clothes  up  again  on  the  same  hook,  and  goes  to  the 
bedroom  door  and  looks  in) 

(In  a  loud,  shrill  voice)  Alfred!  (Still  louder)  Alfred! 
(There  is  a  muffled,  yawning  groan  from  the  next  room) 
Don't  you  think  it's  about  time  you  got  up?  Do  you 
want  to  stay  in  bed  all  day?  (Turning  around  and  coming 
back  to  her  chair)  Not  that  I've  got  any  doubts  about 
your  being  lazy  enough  to  stay  in  bed  forever.  (She  sits 
down  and  looks  out  of  the  window,  irritably)  Goodness 
knows  what  time  it  is.  We  haven't  even  got  any  way  of 
telling  the  time  since  you  pawned  your  watch  like  a  fool. 
The  last  valuable  thing  we  had,  and  you  knew  it.  It's 
been  nothing  but  pawn,  pawn,  pawn,  with  you  —  any 
thing  to  put  off  getting  a  job,  anything  to  get  out  of  going 
to  work  like  a  man.  (She  taps  the  floor  with  her  foot  nerv 
ously,  biting  her  lips) 

(After  a  short  pause)  Alfred!  Get  up,  do  you  hear  me? 
I  want  to  make  that  bed  before  I  go  out.  I'm  sick  of  hav 
ing  this  place  in  a  continual  muss  on  your  account.  (With 
a  certain  vindictive  satisfaction)  Not  that  we'll  be  here 
long  unless  you  manage  to  get  some  money  some  place. 
Heaven  knows  I  do  my  part  —  and  more  —  going  out  to 
sew  every  day  while  you  play  the  gentleman  and  loaf 
around  bar  rooms  with  that  good-for-nothing  lot  of  artists 
from  the  Square. 


358  BEFORE  BREAKFAST 

(A  short  pause  during  which  she  plays  nervously  with  a  cup 
and  saucer  on  the  table) 

And  where  are  you  going  to  get  money,  I'd  like  to  know? 
The  rent's  due  this  week  and  you  know  what  the  landlord 
is.  He  won't  let  us  stay  a  minute  over  our  time.  You 
say  you  can't  get  a  job.  That's  a  lie  and  you  know  it. 
YouNnever  even  look  for  one.  All  you  do  is  moon  around 
all  day  writing  silly  poetry  and  stories  that  no  one  will 
buy  —  and  no  wonder  they  won't.  I  notice  I  can  always 
get  a  position,  such  as  it  is;  and  it's  only  that  which  keeps 
us  from  starving  to  death. 

(Gets  up  and  goes  over  to  the  stove  —  looks  into  the  coffee  pot 
to  see  if  the  water  is  boiling;  then  comes  back  and  sits  down 
again) 

You'll  have  to  get  money  to-day  some  place.  I  can't  do 
it  all,  and  I  won't  do  it  all.  You've  got  to  come  to  your 
senses.  You've  got  to  beg,  borrow,  or  steal  it  some- 
wheres.  (With  a  contemptuous  laugh)  But  where,  I'd 
like  to  know?  You're  too  proud  to  beg,  and  you've  bor 
rowed  the  limit,  and  you  haven't  the  nerve  to  steal. 
(After  a  pause  —  getting  up  angrily)  Aren't  you  up  yet, 
for  heaven's  sake?  It's  just  like  you  to  go  to  sleep  again, 
or  pretend  to.  (She  goes  to  the  bedroom  door  and  looks  in) 
Oh,  you  are  up.  Well,  it's  about  time.  You  needn't 
look  at  me  like  that.  Your  airs  don't  fool  me  a  bit  any 
more.  I  know  you  too  well  —  better  than  you  think  I 
do  —  you  and  your  goings-on.  (Turning  away  from  the 
door  —  meaningly)  I  know  a  lot  of  things,  my  dear. 
Never  mind  what  I  know,  now.  I'll  tell  you  before  I  go, 
you  needn't  worry.  (She  comes  to  the  middle  of  the  room 
and  stands  there,  frowning) 

(Irritably)  Hmm!  I  suppose  I  might  as  well  get  break 
fast  ready  —  not  that  there's  anything  much  to  get. 
(Questioningly)  Unless  you  have  some  money?  (She 
pauses  for  an  answer  from  the  next  room  which  does  not 
come)  Foolish  question!  (She  gives  a  short,  hard  laugh) 
I  ought  to  know  you  better  than  that  by  this  time.  When 


BEFORE   BREAKFAST  359 

you  left  here  in  such  a  huff  last  night  I  knew  what  would 
happen.  You  can't  be  trusted  for  a  second.  A  nice  con 
dition  you  came  home  in!  The  fight  we  had  was  only  an 
excuse  for  you  to  make  a  beast  of  yourself.  What  was 
the  use  pawning  your  watch  if  all  you  wanted  with  the 
money  was  to  waste  it  in  buying  drink? 
(Goes  over  to  the  dish  closet  and  takes  out  plates,  cups,  etc., 
while  she  is  talking) 

Hurry  up!  It  don't  take  long  to  get  breakfast  these  days, 
thanks  to  you.  All  we  got  this  morning  is  bread  and 
butter  and  coffee;  and  you  wouldn't  even  have  that  if  it 
wasn't  for  me  sewing  my  fingers  off.  (She  slams  the  loaf 
of  bread  on  the  table  with  a  bang) 

The  bread's  stale.  I  hope  you'll  like  it.  You  don't  de 
serve  any  better,  but  I  don't  see  why  I  should  suffer. 
(Going  over  to  the  stove)  The  coffee'll  be  ready  in  a 
minute,  and  you  needn't  expect  me  to  wait  for  you. 
(Suddenly  with  great  anger)  What  on  earth  are  you  doing 
all  this  time?  (She  goes  over  to  the  door  and  looks  in)  Well, 
you're  almost  dressed  at  any  rate.  I  expected  to  find  you 
back  in  bed.  That'd  be  just  like  you.  How  awful  you 
look  this  morning!  For  heaven's  sake,  shave!  You're 
disgusting!  You  look  like  a  tramp.  No  wonder  no  one 
will  give  you  a  job.  I  don't  blame  them  —  when  you 
don't  even  look  half-way  decent.  (She  goes  to  the  stove) 
There's  plenty  of  hot  water  right  here.  Yeu'vo  -got  no 
excuse.  (Gets  a  bowl  and  pours  some  of  the  water  from  the 
coffee  pot  into  it)  Here. 

(He  reaches  his  hand  into  the  room  for  it.  It  is  a  beautiful, 
sensitive  hand  with  slender,  tapering  fingers.  It  trembles 
and  some  of  the  water  spills  on  the  floor) 
(Tauntingly)  Look  at  your  hand  tremble!  You'd  better 
give  up  drinking.  You  can't  stand  it.  It's  just  your  kind 
that  get  the  D.  T's.  That  would  be  the  last  straw !  (Look 
ing  down  at  the  floor)  Look  at  the  mess  you've  made  of 
this  floor  —  cigarette  butts  and  ashes  all  over  the  place. 
Why  can't  you  put  them  on  a  plate?  No,  you  wouldn't 


360  BEFORE  BREAKFAST 

be  considerate  enough  to  do  that.  You  never  think  of 
me.  You  don't  have  to  sweep  the  room  and  that's  all 
you  care  about. 

{Takes  the  broom  and  commences  to  sweep  viciously ,  raising 
a  cloud  of  dust.  From  the  inner  room  comes  the  sound  of  a 
razor  being  stropped) 

(Sweeping)  Hurry  up !  It  must  be  nearly  time  for  me  to 
go.  If  I'm  late  I'm  liable  to  lose  my  position,  and  then 
I  couldn't  support  you  ariy  longer.  (.45  an  afterthought 
she  adds  sarcastically)  And  then  jrou'd  have  to  go  to 
work  or  something  dreadful  like  that.  (Sweeping  under 
the  table)  What  I  w#ht  to  know  is  whether  you're  going 
to  look  for  a  job  to-day  or  not.  You  know  your  family 
won't  help  us  any  more.  They've  had  enough  of  you,  too. 
(After  a  moment's  silent  sweeping)  )  I'm  about  sick  of  all 
this  life.  I've  a  good  notion  to  go  home,  if  I  wasn't  too 
proud  to  let  them  know  what  a  failure  you've  been  —  you, 
the  millionaire  Rowland's  only  son,  the  Harvard  graduate, 
the  poet,  the  catch  of  the  town  —  Huh !  (With  bitterness) 
There  wouldn't  be  many  of  them  now  envy  my  catch  if 
they  knew  the  truth.  What  has  our  marriage  been,  I'd 
like  to  know?  Even  before  your  millionaire  father  died 
owing  every  one  in  the  world  money,  you  certainly  never 
wasted  any  of  your  time  on  your  wife.  I  suppose  you 
thought  I'd  ought  to  be  glad  you  were  honorable  enough 
to  marry  me  —  after  getting  me  into  trouble.  You  were 
ashamed  of  me  with  your  fine  friends  because  my  father's 
only  a  grocer,  that's  what  you  were.  At  least  he's  honest, 
which  is  more  than  any  one  could  say  about  yours.  (She 
is  sweeping  steadily  toward  the  door.  Leans  on  her  broom 
for  a  moment) 

You  hoped  every  one'd  think  you'd  been  forced  to  marry 
me,  and  pity  you,  didn't  you?  You  didn't  hesitate  much 
about  telling  me  you  loved  me,  and  making  me  believe  your 
lies,  before  it  happened,  did  you?  You  made  me  think 
you  didn't  want  your  father  to  buy  me  off  as  he  tried  to 
do.  I  know  better  now.  I  haven't  lived  with  you  all 


BEFORE  BREAKFAST  361 

this  time  for  nothing.  (Somberly)  It's  lucky  the  poor 
thing  was  born  dead,  after  all.  What  a  father  you'd 
have  been! 

(Is  silent,  brooding  moodily  for  a  moment  —  then  she  con 
tinues  with  a  sort  of  savage  joy) 

But  I'm  not  the  only  one  who's  got  you  to  thank  for  being 
unhappy.  There's  one  other,  at  least,  and  she  can't  hope 
to  marry  you  now.  (She  puts  her  head  into  the  next  room) 
How  about  Helen?  (She  starts  back  from  the  doorway, 
half  frightened) 

Don't  look  at  me  that  way !  ¥•»,  I  read  her  letter.  What 
about  it?  I  got  a  right  to.  I'm  your  wife.  And  I  know 
all  there  is  to  know,  so  don't  lie.  You  needn't  stare  at 
me  so.  You  can't  bully  me  with  your  superior  airs  any 
longer.  Only  for  me  you'd  be  going  without  breakfast 
this  very  morning.  (She  sets  the  brooms  back  in  the  corner 
—  whiningly)  You  never  did  have  any  gratitude  for  what 
I've  done.  (She  comes  to  the  stove  and  puts  the  coffee  into 
the  pot)  The  coffee's  ready.  I'm  not  going  to  wait  for 
you.  (She  sits  down  in  her  chair  again) 
(After  a  pause  —  puts  her  hand  to  her  head — fretfully) 
My  head  aches  so  this  morning.  It's  a  shame  I've  got  to 
go  to  work  in  a  stuffy  room  all  day  in  my  condition.  And 
I  wouldn't  if  you  were  half  a  man.  By  rights  I  ought  to 
be  lying  on  my  back  instead  of  you.  You  know  how  sick 
I've  been  this  last  year;  and  yet  you  object  when  I  take 
a  little  something  to  keep  up  my  spirits.  You  even  didn't 
want  me  to  take  that  tonic  I  got  at  the  drug  store.  (With 
a  hard  laugh)  I  know  you'd  be  glad  to  have  me  dead  and 
out  of  your  way;  then  you'd  be  free  to  run  after  all  these 
silly  girls  that  think  you're  such  a  wonderful,  misunder 
stood  person  —  this  Helen  and  the  others.  (There  is  a 
sharp  exclamation  of  pain  from  the  next  room) 
(With  satisfaction)  There!  I  knew  you'd  cut  yourself. 
It'll  be  a  lesson  to  you.  You  know  you  oughtn't  to  be 
running  around  nights  drinking  with  your  nerves  in  such 
an  awful  shape.  (She  goes  to  the  door  and  looks  in) 


362  BEFORE  BREAKFAST 

What  makes  you  so  pale?  What  are  you  staring  at  your 
self  in  the  mirror  that  way  for?  For  goodness  sake,  wipe 
that  blood  off  your  face !  (With  a  shudder)  It's  horrible. 
(In  relieved  tones)  There,  tkafe'e  bettor. — I-  never- could 
stand  the  sight  of  blood.  (She  shrinks  back  from  the  door 
a  little)  You  better  give  up  trying  and  go  to  a  barber 
shop.  Your  hand  shakes  dreadfully.  Why  do  you  stare 
at  me  like  that?  (She  turns  away  from  the  door)  I'll 
give  you  fifteen  cents  —  only  promise  you  won't  buy  a 
drink  with  it.  Are  you  still  mad  at  me  about  that  letter? 
(Defiantly)  Well,  I  had  a  right  to  read  it.  I'm  your 
wife.  (She  comes  to  the  chair  and  sits  down  again.  After 
a  pause) 

I  knew  all  the  time  you  were  running  around  with  some 
one.  Your  lame  excuses  about  spending  the  time  at  the 
library  didn't  fool  me.  Who  is  this  Helen,  anyway? 
One  of  those  artists?  Or  does  she  write  poetry,  too? 
Her  letter  sounds  that  way.  I'll  bet  she  told  you  your 
things  were  the  best  ever,  and  you  believed  her,  like  a  fool. 
Is  she  young  and  pretty?  I  was  young  and  pretty,  too, 
when  you  fooled  me  with  your  fine,  poetic  talk;  but  life 
with  you  would  soon  wear  anyone  down.  What  I've 
been  through ! 

(Goes  over  and  takes  the  coffee  off  the  stove}  Breakfast  is 
ready.  (With  a  contemptuous  glance)  Breakfast!  (Pours 
out  a  cup  of  coffee  for  herself  and  puts  the  pot  on  the  table) 
Your  coffee'll  be  cold.  What  are  you  doing  —  still 
shaving,  for  heaven's  sake?  You'd  better  give  it  up. 
One  of  these  mornings  you'll  give  yourself  a  serious  cut. 
(She  cuts  off  bread  and  butters  it.  During  the  following 
speeches  she  eats  and  sips  her  coffee) 

I'll  have  to  run  as  soon  as  I've  finished  eating.  One  of  us 
has  got  to  work.  (Angrily)  Are  you  going  to  look  for 
a  job  to-day  or  aren't  you?  I  should  think  some  of  your 
fine  friends  would  help  you,  if  they  really  think  you're 
so  much.  But  I  guess  they  just  like  to  hear  you  talk. 
(Sits  in  silence  for  a  moment) 


BEFORE  BREAKFAST  363 

I'm  sorry  for  this  Helen,  whoever  she  is.  Haven't  you 
got  any  feelings  for  other  people?  What  will  her  family 
say?  I  see  she  mentions  them  in  her  letter.  What  is  she 
going  to  do  —  have  the  child  —  or  go  to  one  of  those 
doctors?  That's  a  nice  thing,  I  must  say.  Where  can 
she  get  the  money?  Is  she  rich?  (She  waits  for  some 
answer  to  this  volley  of  questions) 

Hmm!  You  won't  tell  me  anything  about  her,  will  you? 
Much  I  care.  Come  to  think  of  it,  I'm  not  so  sorry  for 
her,  after  all.  She  knew  what  she  was  doing.  She  isn't 
any  schoolgirl,  like  I  was,  from  the  looks  of  her  letter. 
Does  she  know  you're  married?  Of  course,  she  must. 
All  your  friends  know  about  your  unhappy  marriage. 
I  know  they  pity  you,  but  they  don't  know  my  side  of  it. 
They'd  talk  different  if  they  did. 
(Too  busy  eating  to  go  on  for  a  second  or  so) 
This  Helen  must  be  a  fine  one,  if  she  knew  you  were 
married.  What  does  she  expect,  then?  That  I'll  divorce 
you  and  let  her  marry  you?  Does  she  think  I'm  crazy 
enough  for  that  —  after  all  you've  made  me  go  through? 
I  guess  not!  And  you  can't  get  a  divorce  from  me  and 
you  know  it.  No  one  can  say  I've  ever  done  anything 
wrong.  (Drinks  the  last  of  her  cup  of  coffee) 
She  deserves  to  suffer,  that's  all  I  can  say.  I'll  tell  you 
what  I  think;  I  think  your  Helen  is  no  better  than  a 
common  street- walker,  that's  what  I  think.  (There  is  a 
stifled  groan  of  pain  from  the  next  room) 
Did  you  cut  yourself  again?  Serves  you  right.  Why 
don't  you  go  to  a  barber  shop  when  I  offer  you  the  money? 
(Gets  up  and  takes  off  her  apron)  Well,  I've  got  to  run 
along.  (Peevishly)  This  is  a  fine  life  for  me  to  be  leading ! 
I  won't  stand  for  your  loafing  any  longer.  (Something 
catches  her  ear  and  she  pauses  and  listens  intently)  There! 
You've  overturned  the  water  all  over  everything.  Don't 
say  you  haven't.  I  can  hear  it  dripping  on  the  floor. 
(^4  vague  expression  of  fear  comes  over  her  face)  Alfred ! 
Why  don't  you  answer  me? 


364  BEFORE  BREAKFAST 

(She  moves  slowly  toward  the  room.     There  is  the  noise  of 

a  chair  being  overturned  and  something  crashes  heavily  to  the 

floor.     She  stands,  trembling  with  fright) 

Alfred!     Alfred!     Answer  me!     What  is  it  you  knocked 

over?     Are  you  still  drunk?     (Unable  to  stand  the  tension 

a  second  longer  she  rushes  to  the  door  of  the  bedroom) 

Alfred! 

[She  stands  in  the  doorway  looking  down  at  the  floor  of  the 

inner  room,  transfixed  with  horror.     Then  she  shrieks  wildly 

and  runs  to  the  other  door,  unlocks  it  and  frenziedly  pulls  it 

open,  and  runs  shrieking  madly  into  the  outer  hallway. 

THE   CURTAIN   FALLS 


MY  LADY  DREAMS 

EUGENE  PILLOT 

EUGENE  PILLOT  was  born  in  Houston,  Texas,  and  was 
educated  at  Culver  Military  Academy,  the  University  of 
Texas,  Cornell  and  Harvard  Universities. 

He  is  a  frequent  contributor  of  short  plays  to  magazines. 


MY  LADY  DREAMS 
A  PLAY  IN  ONE  ACT 


BY  EUGENE  PILLOT 


Characters 

.  -    * 

THE  LADY 

MARIE,  HER  MAID 

LITTLE  OLD  LADY 

THE  OTHER  WOMAN   - 

THE  Two  ADORABLE  CHILDREN 


COPTKIOHT,   1922,  BY  EUGENE  PlLLOT. 

All  rightt  retened. 

No  performance  of  this  play,  either  amateur  or  professional,  may  be  given  without  special 
arrangement  with  the  author's  representative,  Mr.  Norman  Lee  Swartout,  Summit,  N.  J. 


MY  LADY  DREAMS 

When  the  curtain  rises  we  see  a  lady's  boudoir,  done  in  the 
luxurious  manner  of  Louis  Seize,  soft  pinks,  white  and  gold. 
There  is  a  fireplace  on  one  side  of  the  room,  before  it,  but  some 
what  up-stage  is  a  chaise  longue  piled  high  with  cushions  at 
its  rear  end.  On  the  same  side  of  the  room  is  a  door  opening 
into  the  adjoining  bedroom.  On  the  opposite  side  of  the  room 
is  a  door  leading  to  an  outer  hallway.  To  the  rear  of  this  door 
is  a  tall  wardrobe  with  doors.  At  rear  center  is  a  dressing 
table,  a  long  mirror  and  lights  that  send  a  glow  down  the  middle 
of  the  room,  the  rest  somewhat  in  shadow. 

Before  the  mirror  sits  the  Lady,  a  magnificent,  queenly 
woman  in  an  exquisite  negligee.  Behind  her  stands  Marie, 
her  maid,  a  trim  little  person  in  black  dress  and  white  apron 
and  cap.  She  is  putting  the  finishing  touches  to  the  Lady's 
hair;  and  now  takes  a  step  back  to  survey  her  work  and  to  be 
sure  that  all  is  well. 

THE  LADY  (appraising  the  work  in  the  mirror).     I  don't  think 

I  would  do  a  bit  more  to  it,  Marie. 
MARIE.     No? 
LADY.     No,  I  doubt  if  you  have  ever  dressed  my  hair  quite 

so  becomingly  as  to-night. 
MARIE.     Thank  you,  my  Lady. 
LADY.     And    to-night  —  of    all    nights,    Marie  —  I    must 

heighten  my  most  telling  points.     For  to-night  I  start 

anew  on  conquest. 
MARIE.     My  Lady  means  —  Lord  Varone  —  you  are  not 

going  to  —  ? 
LADY  (determined,  almost  forcing  the  words).     Yes,  I  have 

decided  not  to  marry  Lord  Varone. 
MARIE.     I'm  —  sorry. 

LADY  (defiantly).     Why  should  you  be  sorry? 
MARIE.     Oh,  because  Lord  Varone  seems  so  —  kind. 


370  MY  LADY  DREAMS 

LADY.     Kind? 

[Her  voice  is  very  hard  at  this  moment. 

MARIE.  Yes.  When  he  stands  near  you  so  tall  and  straight 
—  just  like  a  fine  young  tree  in  the  forest  —  and  he  speaks 
to  you  soft  and  gentle-like  —  he  always  makes  me  think 
I  hear  music  in  a  church.  And  when  he  looks  at  you,  my 
Lady!  Oh,  Madonna!  In  his  eyes  are  a  million  stars 
that  say  he  loves  you,  he  loves  you!  Madonna,  how  can 
any  woman  turn  down  a  man  that  looks  at  her  like  that? 

LADY.     Lord  Varone  is  a  very  selfish  man,  Marie. 

MARIE.     Ah,  no,  not  with  those  eyes. 

LADY.  Yes,  he  wants  me  to  do  many  things  —  should  we 
marry  —  that  my  free  spirit  would  never  permit. 

MARIE  (persuasively).     But  for  such  a  nice  man  — 

LADY.  For  no  man  will  I  chain  myself  to  the  banalities  of 
a  household!  What  would  become  of  my  career,  if  I  did? 
I  have  paid  with  my  life  blood  to  build  myself  up  to  where 
I  am.  I  have  only  to  whisper  that  I  have  an  idea  for  a 
story  or  a  novel  or  a  play,  and  all  the  editors  in  the  land 
will  risk  their  lives  in  the  scramble  to  outbid  each  other 
for  it,  even  before  I  have  put  the  first  word  on  paper. 
That  means  power.  To-day  I  am  a  famous  writer,  world 
renowned,  almost  a  great  literateur.  If  I  marry  Lord 
Varone  and  fall  in  with  his  old-fashioned  ideas,  in  six 
months  I  shall  have  lost  my  power  in  the  literary  world. 
I  would  be  domestic. 

MARIE.     Would  Lord  Varone  want  you  to  be  so? 

LADY.  If  one  marries,  lives  in  the  country,  superintends 
a  country  household,  and  has  children  —  and  Lord  Varone 
is  set  upon  that  point  —  well  —  ! 

MARIE.     But  what  does  it  matter,  if  you  love  him,  my  Lady? 

LADY.  I  will  not  let  my  love  for  him  bring  domesticity  upon 
me.  That  is  why  I  am  giving  him  up! 

MARIE.     With  all  those  stars  in  his  eyes  — 

LADY.  Don't  remind  me  of  his  good  points,  Marie!  I 
don't  want  to  give  him  up!  (Half -dreamily,  as  she  gazes 
at  his  photograph)  If  I  could  only  let  myself  love  him  as 


MY  LADY  DREAMS  371 

much  as  I  know  I  love  him  —  ah,  Vone,  why  must  you  be 
so  wonderful?  You  must  have  been  a  Venetian  prince 
in  the  olden  times.  It's  torture  to  think  of  you  —  I  want 
you  so!  But  I  won't  have  you,  no  I  wont!  (Pushes  the 
pJiotograph  aside)  Get  out  my  dress,  Marie,  hurry  up! 

MAKIE.     Something  for  the  dance? 

LADY.  No,  I  refused  to  go  to  the  Ambassadors'  Ball  with 
Lord  Varone.  It's  the  opera  —  I'm  going  with  the 
Randalls.  She  will  probably  wear  black.  I'd  better 
wear  a  contrast. 

MARIE  (at  the  wardrobe).     The  white  metal  cloth? 

LADY.     No,  no  —  too  much  like  a  virgin  being  crucified. 

MARIE.     The  rose  or  red-violet? 

LADY.  Bring  the  new  green  —  that's  good  for  my  mood. 
Green  is  adaptability,  spring,  eternal  life,  or  something. 
Yes,  that's  it.  Let's  have  it  quickly.  (She  has  slipped 
out  of  the  negligee  and  Marie  now  slips  the  green  gown  on 
her  —  a  superb  creation  in  tones  of  green,  brilliant  as  the 
river  Nile  when  the  spring  sunlight  picks  out  its  lighter  notes 
and  sends  them  vibrating  everywhere)  I  always  feel  like 
Cleopatra  in  green.  I  wonder  if  she  wore  it.  It  seems 
to  help  one  to  control,  to  dominate.  And  Cleopatra  was 
so  successful  in  love.  She  knew  how  not  to  love. 

MARIE.     My  Lady  looks  like  a  queen. 

LADY  (gaily).     The  queen  who  will  not  let  herself  love! 
[In  the  hallway  a  bell  rings. 

MARIE.  The  front  door-bell.  All  the  servants  are  off  to 
night.  I'd  better  answer. 

LADY.     Yes,  you'd  better,  Marie.     It  might  be  important. 

MARIE.     I  will  be  gone  only  a  minute. 

LADY.  Very  well.  (As  Marie  hurries  out,  the  Lady  resumes 
her  seat  before  the  dressing  table.  Musingly)  Suppose  it  is 
Vone?  Suppose  he  wouldn't  take  "no"  for  an  answer? 
Suppose  he  came  anyway? 

[As  though  in  answer  to  her  query,  both  doors  of  the  wardrobe 
fly  open  and  a  strange  little  old  lady  steps  out.  She  might 
almost  be  one  of  Barriers  little  old  ladies  come  to  life,  so 


\ 


372  MY  LADY  DREAMS 

pinched  and  quaint  and  human  she  is  in  her  gay  shawl  and 

poke  bonnet  with  the  wiggly  rose  on  it.     She  walks  with  a 

limp  and  carries  a  cane  to  help  her. 
LITTLE  OLD  LADY  (pertly,  yet  sweetly).     Well,  wouldn't  you 

have  him,  my  dearie? 
LADY.     What?     Did  somebody  speak? 
LITTLE  OLD  LADY  (coming  forward  so  that  the  Lady  sees  her). 

Well,  my  voice  is  cracked  —  most  as  much  as  a  Sunday 

cup  and  saucer  I  saw  once  —  but  still  I'd  call  it  speaking, 

dearie. 

LADY  (in  her  very  grandest  manner).     Who  are  you? 
LITTLE  OLD  LADY  (simply).     Oh,  nobody  much. 
LADY.     How  did  you  get  in  here?     Was  it  you  who  rang  the 

bell?     Did  Marie  let  you  in? 
LITTLE  OLD  LADY.     Ah,  no.     I  never  have  to  be  let  in.     I  just 

come;  and  frequently  when  I  am  least  expected.     I  never 

know  when  it  is  going  to  be,  but  I'm  always  there  on  time. 
LADY.     How  absurd!     You  must  be  insane! 
LITTLE  OLD  LADY.     Not  unless  you  are,  dearie! 
LADY.     Do  you  mean  to  insinuate  —  ? 
LITTLE  OLD  LADY.     Not  in  that  way,  my  pretty. 
LADY  (losing  her  patience).     Well,  I  want  to  know  —  what  are 

you  doing  here,  in  my  house? 
LITTLE  OLD  LADY.     I  had  to  come.     You  called  me. 
LADY  (aghast).     I  called  you? 
LITTLE  OLD  LADY.     And  I  always  come  when  I'm  called, 

double-quick. 
LADY.  Absurd ! 
LITTLE  OLD  LADY.*  No,  no,  not  at  all.  Just  remember  back 

for  a  moment,  if  you  will,  dearie. 
LADY.     Please  don't  call  me  "dearie."     It's  a  little  familiar 

—  and  cheap. 
LITTLE  OLD  LADY.  Oh,  no,  not  cheap.  "Dearie"  's  not 

cheap,  when  there's  feeling  in  the  heart  behind  the  word. 

Anyway,  before  you  heard  my  wee,  pert,  cracked  cup- 

and-saucer  voice,  weren't  you  sitting  there,  sort  of  dream- 

ing-like? 


MY  LADY  DREAMS  373 

LADY  (not  willing  to  commit  herself).     Perhaps  I  was. 

LITTLE  OLD  LADY.     Then  that's  why  I'm  here. 

LADY.     What  do  you  mean? 

LITTLE  OLD  LADY.     I'm  part  of  your  dreaming,  dearie. 

LADY.     W-h-a-t!  ! 

LITTLE  OLD  LADY.  I'm  just  a  memory  that  comes  to  you  in 
your  dreams. 

LADY.     Impossible!     I  never  saw  you  before. 

LITTLE  OLD  LADY.     Oh,  yes,  you  have ! 

LADY.  Absurd!  People  don't  dream  of  what  they've  never 
known.  I'm  modern  enough  to  know  that.  Absurd! 

LITTLE  OLD  LADY.  Not  at  all,  not  at  all.  You've  seen  the 
likes  of  me  in  the  old  woman  huddled  by  the  lamp-post  at 
the  street  corner,  selling  the  evening  papers.  Oh,  many 
times  you've  seen  me  there.  And  once  you  saw  me  in  the 
eyes  of  a  scrubwoman  that  you  happened  to  notice  on  the 
floor  of  an  office  building,  when  you  went  there  one  morning 
at  an  odd  hour.  Oh,  don't  be  afraid,  I'll  not  tell  why 
you  went  there.  It  was  the  human  thing  to  do,  all  right. 
And  another  time  you  saw  me  in  the  tired  little  gray  lady 
in  the  street  car.  Don't  you  remember  she  forgot  herself 
and  smiled  at  you? 

LADY  (impulsively,  half -musingly) .  I  have  always  wondered 
why  she  did  that? 

LITTLE  OLD  LADY.  Only  because  you  were  young  and  pretty, 
bonny  as  a  wild  rose  in  a  desert  of  scraggly  faces. 

LADY  (pleased) .     O-oh. 

LITTLE  OLD  LADY.     You  do  remember  now? 

LADY.  But  how  can  you  be  the  scrubwoman,  the  paper  lady, 
and  the  tired  little  gray  lady? 

LITTLE  OLD  LADY.  Oh,  I'm  not  really  any  of  them  I'm 
just  the  ghost  of  many,  many  pinched  little  old  ladies  that 
one  sees  about  a  great  city.  All  of  their  thin,  wavery 
shadows  are  in  my  soul.  But  in  my  eyes  they  make  for 
you  a  lady  that  you  do  know.  Look  a  wee  bit,  look  in 
my  eyes  and  see  if  you  don't  know  the  lady  there,  look. 
[She  leans  forward  for  the  Lady  to  see. 


374  MY  LADY  DREAMS 

LADY  (surprised  at  what  she  sees).     But  you  can't  be  —  her? 

LITTLE  OLD  LADY  (proudly) .  Ah,  yes  I  am !  I  am  Lord 
Varone's  mother.  His  very  own  mother! 

LADY.    But  she  is  a  very  grand  lady,  tall,  proud,  magnificent ! 

LITTLE  OLD  LADY.  She  is  all  of  that  to  the  world,  I  grant 
you. 

LADY.  While  you  —  you're  not  in  the  least  like  her  —  ex 
cept  the  eyes  — 

LITTLE  OLD  LADY.      Ah! 

LADY.     Why,  you're  even  so  lame  you  have  to  carry  a  cane! 

LITTLE  OLD  LADY.  Do  you  think  I  mind  that?  Not  for  a 
moment!  I'll  tell  you  how  it  was.  When  I  was  still 
almost  young  and  my  boy  —  Lord  Varone  —  was  just 
starting  his  career  in  the  world,  I  humbled  my  pride, 
I  broke  it  in  fact,  to  give  him  a  chance  that  he  had  to  have. 
It  left  me  lame,  that's  why  I  carry  a  cane. 

LADY.  But  Lord  Varone's  mother  does  not  carry  a  cane. 
She's  tall  and  straight  and  walks  superbly. 

LITTLE  OLD  LADY.  Ah,  many  a  fine-walking  lady  has  a  limp 
in  her  soul,  because  of  helping  somebody  that  needed  her. 
But  do  you  imagine  even  one  of  the  grand  ladies  cares  a 
mite,  if  she  has  to  carry  a  prop  somewhere  inside  her?  I 
don't  think  so.  It  only  makes  them  walk  straighter  when 
they  go  into  the  world,  and  hold  their  heads  high  as  horses 
with  a  checkrein. 

LADY.     I  never  thought  of  that. 

LITTLE  OLD  LADY.  How  could  you,  my  dearie?  Have  you 
ever  given  up  anything  that  you  cherished  heart-close? 

LADY.     Have  you  come  here  to  insult  me? 

LITTLE  OLD  LADY  (very  kindly) .  Hardly.  Varone's  mother's 
eyes  would  not  do  that. 

LADY.    Then  why  —  ? 

LITTLE  OLD  LADY  (hesitant,  for  she  is  not  sure  of  her  ground). 
I  have  come  to  ask  you  — 

LADY.      What? 

LITTLE  OLD  LADY.    Please  marry  him. 
LADY.     I'm  sorry  —  I  can't. 


MY  LADY  DREAMS  375 

LITTLE  OLD  LADY.     He  won't  make  you  lose  your  freedom. 

LADY.     How  did  you  know  it  was  that? 

LITTLE  OLD  LADY.  Ah,  mothers  know  so  many  things  that 
other  people  never  suspect. 

LADY.  And  at  heart  —  mothers  don't  usually  want  their 
attractive  sons  to  marry.  They  want  to  keep  them  for 
themselves. 

LITTLE  OLD  LADY.    That's  only  when  they  fear  the  girl. 

LADY.     And  you  don't  fear  me? 

LITTLE  OLD  LADY.  No  one  can  round  out  Varone's  life  for 
him  as  you  can. 

LADY.     Indeed ! 

LITTLE  OLD  LADY.  You  can  help  him  finish  the  career  that 
I  started  for  him. 

LADY  (indignant).  So  that9 s  the  idea!  You  want  me  to 
marry  him  because  I  possess  qualities  that  will  accom 
plish  things  for  him !  I'm  to  be  a  tool  to  polish  the  rough 
edges  of  his  career.  You  must  think  I  am  a  fool ! 

LITTLE  OLD  LADY.       Oh,  no. 

LADY.  And  what  would  become  of  my  own  career  in  the 
meantime? 

LITTLE  OLD  LADY.  You  would  not  lose.  Your  career  would 
grow  richer,  along  with  his. 

LADY.     I  doubt  it. 

LITTLE  OLD  LADY.  Your  whole  life  would  become  a  sounding 
board  of  creation.  Think  of  that,  my  dearie.  You 
would  be  a  harp  of  life,  singing  love  to  the  winds  of 
spring. 

LADY.     I  can't  believe  it. 

LITTLE  OLD  LADY.  Don't  say  that.  I  want  you  to  marry 
my  boy.  He  loves^ou,  you  love  him.  That  should  be 
enough. 

LADY.  Unfortunately,  the  world  makes  one  take  other 
things  into  consideration  in  a  marriage  these  days. 

LITTLE  OLD  LADY  (flaring).  And  that's  why  the  whole 
world  is  going  smash!  Nobody  will  do  anything  for  any 
body,  unless  they  get  something  for  it,  beforehand  if 


376  MY  LADY  DREAMS 

possible.     Don't    break    with    Varone!    You    will    hurt 

yourself  the  most. 
LADY.     Stop  saying  things  like  that  to  me!     I  won't  listen! 

[The  Lady  turns  away  and  sits  in  chair  by  the  mirror, 

pouting. 

LITTLE  OLD  LADY.     You  know  that  what  I  say  is  true. 
LADY  (defiantly).     I  don't  care. 
LITTLE  OLD  LADY.     It  isn't  often  that  a  mother  proposes  for 

a  daughter;  but  you  will  marry  Varone,  won't  you? 
LADY  (in  a  rage).     No,  no,  no!    I  will  not  marry  him,  /  will 

not! 
LITTLE  OLD  LADY  (edging  apologetically  toward  the  hall  door). 

I  shall  be  hoping  so  —  anyway  —  dearie  — 

[Blows  her  a  ghost  of  a  kiss,  and  is  gone. 

The  Lady  sits  musing  by  the  mirror. 

Like  a  flame  from  the  fire,  the  Other  Woman  rises  from  the 

fireplace.     She  is  a  pulsating,  vital  creature  in  a  gown  as 

glowing  as  the  flames  themselves.     As  she  steps  out  into  the 

room,  the  Lady  looks  up  and  sees  her. 

LADY  (again  in  her  grand  manner).     And  pray,  who  are  you? 
OTHER  WOMAN.     I  am  the  Other  Woman  in  his  life. 
LADY.     The  Other  Woman?     Is  there  another  woman  in 

Varone's  life? 
OTHER  WOMAN.     There  is  always  the  Other  Woman  in  every 

man's  life.     He  may  not  have  met  her  yet,  but  she  is 

always  there;  and  usually  she  is  pretty  bad. 
LADY.     Are  you? 
OTHER  WOMAN.     I  am  one  of  the  worst.     I  have  all  of  the 

lures,  all  of  the  charms  that  most  women  know,  but  few 

dare  to  use  —  unless  they  are  scarlet,  as  I  am. 
LADY.     You  seem  to  glory  in  your  —  color. 
OTHER  WOMAN.     Why  shouldn't  I?     Poppies  and  flame  roses 

do  not  hang  their  heads  in  shame  because  nature  gave 

them  the  color  of  blood. 
LADY.     How  dare  you  come  here? 
OTHER  WOMAN.     You  invited  me. 
LADY  (aghast).     If 


MY  LADY  DREAMS  377 

OTHER  WOMAN.     You  started  to  wonder  about  me,  after  his 

mother  had  gone,  and  to  dream  about  me,  then  I  came. 
LADY.     The  insolence! 
OTHER  WOMAN.     Oh,  no !     Oh,  no!     Why  shouldn't  I  come? 

Aren't  we  really  —  sisters? 
LADY.     Sisters? 
OTHER  WOMAN.     You  are  pure  and  gam  your  ends  with  guile 

and  in  obscure  ways.     While  I  —  am  what  people  know 

I  am.     I  take  the  direct  road  and  gain  my  ends  openly. 

I  am  elemental,  without  fear,  vital.     No  man  on  earth  can 

resist  me! 

LADY.     I  am  sure  my  Varone  would  never  look  at  you. 
OTHER  WOMAN.     Ha,  you  have  the  false  security  of  a  virgin 

—  one  of  those  over-saintly,  milk-white  ones. 
LADY.     I  would  have  you  understand  that  my  emotions  are 

not  milk-white. 
OTHER  WOMAN.     Perhaps   not,   but   your  conventions  are. 

You  are  just  the  kind  that  is  easiest  for  me  to  rob  of  your 

men. 
LADY.     What  makes  you  think  that? 

OTHER  WOMAN.       Because  I  knOW. 

LADY.     Ha! 

OTHER  WOMAN.  Yes,  it's  my  business  to  know.  How  do 
you  suppose  it  is  that  women  of  my  —  shall  we  say, 
color  —  manage  to  have  in  their  train  so  many  of  the  most 
desirable  men  of  a  great  city?  Do  you  think  those  men 
come  to  us  in  preference  to  you?  Ah,  no!  It  is  usually 
because  women  like  you  have  placed  themselves  upon 
such  freezing  pedestals  that  the  poor  male  things  can't, 
ever  come  to  a  companionable  understanding  with  your 
kind.  You  think  so  well  of  yourselves  that  you  carelessly 
discard  your  men,  as  one  would  cards  in  a  game  of  chance. 
Then  is  when  we  catch  them  —  when  their  hearts  are 
bruised,  crying  for  sympathy.  Then  is  when  we  score. 
We  give  them  everything  —  and  hold  them ! 

LADY.     That  may  apply  to  the  men  you  know.     Not  to 
Varone. 


378  MY  LADY  DREAMS 

OTHER  WOMAN.  How  little  you  know  of  life,  you  who  depict 
it  with  a  pencil  and  a  typewriter!  No  wonder  magazine 
stories  are  so  stupidly  done  to  those  who  know  life.  Those 
stories  are  written  by  and  for  people  who  know  nothing 
of  life.  Well,  let  me  tell  you  something  —  for  every  man 
like  Varone  there  is  always  some  scarlet  woman  waiting 
around  the  corner.  'And  he  will  be  easiest  to  get  just  after 
you  turn  him  down. 

LADY  (suspiciously).  May  I  ask  —  do  you  know  Lord 
Varone  —  now? 

OTHER  WOMAN.  No,  and  I  don't  even  know  what  he  looks 
like. 

LADY.     Then  why  are  you  so  concerned  about  him? 

OTHER  WOMAN  (with  great  sincerity).     I  want  to  save  him. 

LADY.     Save  him?     From  what? 

OTHER  WOMAN.  From  me  —  or  from  women  like  me  That 
is  why  I  came  here  —  to  beg  you  not  to  throw  him  over. 
He  is  pure  gold.  Can't  you  see  that? 

LADY.  Of  course.  I  would  be  blind,  if  I  did  not.  But  I 
have  a  career  to  think  of.  Marriage  to  any  man  I  loved 
would  send  it  up  in  smoke.  I  shall  marry  some  one  for 
whom  I  care  nothing.  That's  what  I  shall  do.  Then  I 
shall  be  safe. 

OTHER  WOMAN.     And  Varone  —  what  will  become  of  him? 

LADY.  I  shall  break  with  him  gently,  slowly,  so  that  he  will 
not  realize  what  is  happening  till  it  is  all  over.  By  that 
time  it  will  be  too  late  for  you  to  get  him.  He  will  be 
reconciled  to  his  fate. 

OTHER  WOMAN.  You  are  willing  to  take  a  greater  risk  than 
I  would.  Don't  do  it.  I  want  you  to  have  Varone.  You 
are  so  worthy  of  him.  Please  take  him. 

LADY.  No !  I  will  not  be  moved  by  your  mawkish  sentimen 
tality. 

OTHER  WOMAN.  Remember  —  if  you  don't  take  him,  I 
will. 

LADY.     You  cannot  move  me  with  such  a  bluff. 

OTHER  WOMAN.    Very  well.     I  gave  you  the  first  chance  at 


MY  LADY  DREAMS  379 

him.     Now  I'll  take  him.     And  how  I  shall  laugh,  and 
laugh,  and  laugh  at  you  both  —  when  I  crush  him  —  so 
that  he  can  never  rise  again !     Ha,  ha,  ha,  h-a-a- ! 
[With  a  wild  laugh,  like  a  dart  of  flame,  she  is  gone. 
The  Lady  stands  nonplussed. 

LADY.     I  wonder  if  she  is  right?     Could  a  woman  like  that 
get  him?     I  wonder  — 

[But  her  musing  is  broken  by  a  strange,  unexpected  happen 
ing.  There  is  a  gay  ripple  of  childish  laughter,  the  pillows 
on  the  chaise  longue  are  hurled  to  the  four  corners  of  the  room, 
and  the  Two  Adorable  Children  leap  out,  —  one  from  behind 
the  cushions,  the  other  from  under  the  chaise.  They  are  both 
girls,  one  blonde,  the  other  brunette,  at  least  eight  or  nine  years 
old,  though  they  might  be  almost  any  age,  since  they  are  the 
rare  type  that  have  caught  in  their  hearts  the  universal  spirit 
of  childhood.  They  have  not  started  to  be  young  ladies  in  their 
cradles ;  in  fact,  when  they  have  really  and  truly  grown  up 
to  the  age  when  one  is  considered  a  young  lady,  they  may 
forget  themselves  sometimes  and  bubble  forth  with  some  de 
lightfully  impulsive  remark.  Perhaps  they  are  distant 
cousins  of  Peter  Pan,  and  will  never  quite  grow  up.  I  don't 
know.  But  I  hope  they  won't,  for  as  they  now  leap  from  their 
hiding  places,  I  want  them  to  remain  Adorables  forever. 
The  Adorable  Blonde  is  in  a  fluffy  dancing  frock,  simulating 
a  great  pink  rose,  but  the  Adorable  Brunette  is  in  a  boy's 
costume  of  pink,  with  her  hair  well  tucked  under  a  boyish 
cap. 

BLONDE  (happily).    There  she  is,  there! 

BRUNETTE     Ha,  ha!     (Clap  hands)     You  didn't  know  we 
were  here,  did  you? 

BLONDE  (as  they  both  rush  to  the  Lady).    Say  you  didn't 
know,  say  you  didn't! 

BRUNETTE.     Say  it,  say  it ! 

LADY.     You  dear,  adorable  children!    Of  course  I  didn't 
know  you  were  here.     How  could  I? 

BLONDE  (to  Brunette).    You  see,  I  told  you  she  wouldn't 
be  thinking  of  us  as  anywhere  at  all! 


380  MY  LADY  DREAMS 

LADY.     But  I  must  say  —  I  don't  understand.     What  is  it  all 

about? 

[In  a  rush. 

BRUNETTE.     Well,  you  see  — 
BLONDE.    No,  let  me  tell!    It  was  my  idea! 
BRUNETTE.     But  I  did  it!     Let  me  tell  her! 
BLONDE.     No,  me,  me,  me! 
LADY  (very  kindly,  for  with  the  advent  of  the  two  Adorables  she 

seems  to  have  developed  a  wonderful  gentleness  that  one  would 

hardly  have  suspected  she  had  anywhere  about  her).     You 

must  both  tell  me,  but  one  at  a  time.     You  begin. 

[To  Blonde. 
BLONDE.     Well,  we've  just  come  from  dancing  school.     And 

—  and  they  had  a  fancy-dress  ball  there  and  —  and  we 

fooled  everybody  there,  that  is  at  first! 
LADY.     How  did  you  fool  them? 
BRUNETTE.     Oh,  she  hasn't  guessed  yet!    Goody,  goody, 

goody ! 

BLONDE.     Ha,  ha,  ha!     We  even  fooled  you,  even  you! 
LADY.      Yes,  but  how?      How  did  you  fool  me?      About 

what? 
BLONDE.     Look!     She  isn't  a  boy  at  all!     (Jerks  cap  off 

Brunette's  head  and  her  hair  falls  in  a  mass  about  her 

shoulders)     Look ! 
BRUNETTE.     I  had  a  dress  just  like  hers,  but  I  wanted  to  be 

a  boy  just  for  once  —  to  see  how  it  felt  —  so  after  we  got 

to  the  party,  I  changed  clothes  with  Jimmie  Smith.     We 

had  a  terribly  hard  time  —  we  had  to  do  it  behind  Mrs. 

Smith's  back.     She's  broad  enough  in  the  middle,  but 

she  doesn't  always  keep  the  middle  still,  you  know. 
BLONDE.     Especially  when  she  laughs. 
BRUNETTE.     Oh,  yes !     But  Jimmie  —  you  should  have  seen 

Jimmie  in  my  dress !     He  was  too  funny !     When  he  walks, 

his  legs  work  in  instead  of  out.     Just  like  this. 

[Demonstrates  Jimmie* s  walk. 

BLONDE.     But  everybody  thought  she  really  was  a  boy. 
BRUNETTE.     It  was  perfect ! 


MY  LADY  DREAMS  381 

BLONDE.     Anyhow,  she  says  she  felt  like  a  girl  all  the  time 

just  the  same. 

BRUNETTE.     Wasn't  that  queer? 
LADY  (draining  them  to  her,  on  the  chaise) .     You  dear,  adorable 

Adorables ! 

BRUNETTE.     Well,  aren't  you  going  to  undress  us  for  bed? 
LADY  (surprised).     I? 

BLONDE.     We  thought  you  would.     We're  awfully  tired. 
BRUNETTE.     And  sleepy. 
LADY.     I  don't  know  whether  I  should.     Whose  children 

are  you? 

BLONDE  (disappointed).     Oh,  don't  you  know? 
BRUNETTE.     Pshaw,  you  seemed  so  kind.     We  thought  it 

was  all  decided. 

LADY.     Decided?    What  are  you  talking  about? 
BLONDE  (with  an  air  of  apology).     She's  so  inexperienced.     I 

guess  we'll  have  to  tell  her. 

BRUNETTE.       I  gUCSS  SO. 

BLONDE.     WVre  only  the  kiddies  that  come  to  you  in  your 

dream. 
BRUNETTE.     And  when  your  dream  wakes  up  —  poof,  we  are 

no  more. 

[Blows. 

BLONDE.     Unless  you  decide  to  want  us  really  and  truly. 
BRUNETTE  (clamoring  over  her).     Oh,  please  want  us,  please, 

please,  please! 

BLONDE  (slyly).     He  wants  us. 
LADY.     Who? 
BLONDE.     Vone ! 
LADY.     Lord  Varone  —  o-oh. 

[At  last  she  understands. 
BRUNETTE.     We   know  why  you  don't  want  us.     You're 

afraid  you  won't  be  able  to  write  any  more,  that's  why. 
LADY.     Perhaps  it  —  is. 
BLONDE  (gleefully).     Oh,  but  you  don't  know  how  jolly  you 

would  write,  if  you  had  us !     WVd  help  you ! 
BRUNETTE.     We'd  even  let  you  write  all  about  us! 


382  MY  LADY  DREAMS 

BLONDE.     And  for  us ! 

BRUNETTE.       Oh,  yes! 

LADY.     You  dears ! 

[They  are  tantalizing  fruity  but  she  still  considers  them  for 
bidden  —  to  her. 

BLONDE.  And  they'd  be  the  very  best  stories  anybody  ever 
wrote! 

BRUNETTE.     Even  better  than  Black  Sambo  or  Peter  Rabbit ! 

BLONDE.     And  that's  saying  a  good  deal,  let  me  tell  you. 

BRUNETTE.     Especially  Peter  —  he's  hard  to  beat. 

BLONDE.  But  hers  would  be  better  stories.  Just  think  — 
we'd  be  in  them!  And  often  when  she  least  expected  it, 
there  we'd  be,  saying  something  terribly  clever  right  in  the 
middle  of  her  story!  And  people  would  read  them  with 
delight !  For  they  would  be  just  like  life. 

BRUNETTE.     Only  heaps  better! 

BLONDE.     And  lots  more  exciting! 

LADY  (hugging  them  to  her).     You  irresistible  ones! 

&ijOg£E.£str.uggling  to  free  herself).  And  —  and  we'd  be  lots 
more  fun  than  that,  even  in  the  beginning. 

BRUNETTE.     Oh,  yes!     And  all  the  time! 

BLONDE.  In  the  beginning  —  when  we  are  tiny  tinies  — 
we'd  crow  at  you  from  out  of  pink  and  blue  cradles,  and 
catch  at  your  arm  just  to  see  you  smile  at  us.  And  maybe 
you'd  stop  and  look  at  us  for  a  moment,  wondering  if  we 
understood  that  you  loved  us. 

BRUNETTE.  Of  course  we  would  understand.  All  babies 
do,  if  their  mothers  only  knew. 

BLONDE.  Sure!  And  later  there  would  be  parties!  And 
you  would  dance  with  us  on  the  green !  Just  like  this  — 
come,  oh  do! 

BRUNETTE.     Oh,  do  dance  with  us ! 

[They  catch  the  Lady's  hands  and  pull  her  up.  With  a  child 
on  each  side,  she  does  a  simple  little  dance  with  them,  the 
three  ending  with  an  elaborate  bow.  The  moment  the  dance  is 
over,  the  children  peck  a  quick  kiss  on  her  hands  and  dart 
toward  the  hall  door. 


MY  LADY  DREAMS  383 

BOTH  CHILDREN.     Good-by,  good-by! 

LADY.     Where  are  you  going? 

BOTH  CHILDREN.     Away,  away ! 

LADY.     Why  do  you  leave  me,  when  I've  begun  to  love  you? 

BLONDE.     You  haven't  decided  to  have  us! 

BRUNETTE.     We  can't  stay  unless  you  decide! 

BLONDE.     We  can't,  we  can't ! 

BRUNETTE.     Good-by,  good-by! 

[The  Lady  seems  stunned,  so  with  gay  laughter  the  two 
Adorables  dash  through  the  door  and  are  —  gone! 

LADY.  No,  oh,  no !  Don't  go !  I  —  (But  the  only  response 
is  the  distant  echo  of  childish  glee,  which  dies  away  as  sud 
denly  as  it  came)  And  I  didn't  get  their  names!  How 
can  I  ever  know  them  again  without  their  names?  I 
must  know  their  names!  Wait,  wait!  Where  are  you? 
Gone !  Really  gone  — 

[She  sinks  down  on  the  chair  before  the  mirror,  in  the  position 
she  had  early  in  the  scene.  It  is  at  this  time  that  Marie 
hurries  in. 

MARIE.     I'm  sorry  to  be  so  long,  my  Lady,  but  — 

LADY  (startled).     Marie!    Are  you  in  my  dream  too? 

MARIE.     Your  dream,  my  Lady? 

LADY  (in  a  burst).     Oh,  never  mind,  don't  try  to  understand 
-  but  did  you  see  them?     Which  way  did  they  go? 

MARIE.     Which  way  did  who  go? 

LADY  (almost  beside  herself).  The  children,  the  children! 
The  Adorable  Ones! 

MARIE.  I  went  to  the  front  door,  but  no  one  was  there.  It 
was  the  telephone  that  rang. 

LADY.  But  didn't  you  see  the  children?  Didn't  you  let 
them  out  the  front  way? 

MARIE  (firmly).  I  let  no  one  out  of  the  house.  And  I  saw 
no  children. 

LADY.  But  they  went  that  way!  Why  didn't  I  follow? 
Maybe  I'm  not  dreaming  now,  after  all.  Marie,  come 
here  and  pinch  me. 

MARIE.     Pinch  you?     Where? 


384  MY  LADY  DREAMS 

LADY.  Anywhere.  It  doesn't  matter  where.  If  I  feel  it, 
then  I  know  I'm  awake.  If  I  don't,  then  I  am  dreaming. 
Pinch,  Marie,  pinch !  (Marie  pinches  her  on  the  arm.  She 
winces)  Ouch!  That  settles  it !  At  least  I'm  not  dream 
ing. 

MARIE.     On  the  telephone  was  Lord  Varone  — 

LADY.     Lord  Varone?     Why  didn't  you  tell  me  before? 

MARIE.  He  is  gone  now.  He  did  not  ask  to  speak  to  you, 
but  wanted  me  to  give  you  a  message  — 

LADY.     Yes,  yes! 

MARIE.  He  said  he  would  not  disturb  you,  since  you  had 
given  him  a  final  answer  for  this  evening,  but  in  case  you 
should  desire  to  communicate  with  him  on  another  matter, 
he  is  at  the  Lotus  Club. 

LADY.  Lotus  Club?  That's  only  in  the  next  block !  Quick, 
Marie,  get  into  your  street  coat!  I  can't  telephone  such 
a  thing.  I'll  send  a  note.  Hurry  Marie,  hurry! 

MARIE.     Yes,  my  Lady,  yes! 
[Marie  flies  out  the  room. 

LADY  (she  has  already  snatched  up  pen  and  paper  and  started 
to  write  the  important  note) .  "Dear,  dear  Vone :  (then  as  she 
pauses  for  a  moment)  Oh,  if  only  the  dream-ones  were  here 
to  help  me  say  it,  so  that  it  will  mean  the  most  —  if 
only  — 

[As  if  in  answer  to  her  desire,  there  appears  in  the  doorway 
behind  her  the  Little  Old  Lady,  the  Other  Woman,  and  the 
Two  Adorable  Children.  They  speak  in  rapid  succession: 
"We  are  here  to  help  you!'9  "We'll  always  help  you!" 
"We  will,  we  will!" 

LADY.     It  almost  seems  as  though  they  were  here. 

CHILDREN.     We  are ! 

LADY  (apparently  not  realizing  their  presence).  Well,  I'll  say 
it  the  best  way  I  can. 

LITTLE  OLD  LADY.  That's  it,  dearie.  He  wouldn't  want 
anything  better.  The  best  way  you  can,  that's  all,  dearie. 

LADY  (she  has  been  writing  rapidly  during  the  above  and  con 
tinues  to  do  so  as  she  speaks).  "And  dear  Vone,  if  you  don't 


MY  LADY  DREAMS  385 

come  and  kidnap  me  the  moment  this  reaches  you  —  well, 
come,  come,  come!     I'm  dying  to  be  with  you  in  that  dar 
ling  country  house,  and  the  children  want  you  too  — 
oh,  no,  I  mustn't  say  that!     (She  starts  to  scratch  out  the 
words,  but  her  impulse  carries  her  on)     Oh,  never  mind  — 
"But  most  of  all,  I  want  you,  Vone,  you!" 
[Hurriedly  she  seals  the  letter  with  a  kiss,  much  to  the  delight 
of  the  little  company  behind  her,  who  flurry  away  the  moment 
her  task  is  completed. 

CURTAIN 


BLACKBERRYIN' 

HOWARD  FORMAN  SMITH 

HOWARD  FORMAN  SMITH  studied  the  arts  of  the  theatre, 
under  Thomas  Wood  Steirns,  in  the  College  of  Fine  Arts, 
Carnegie  Institute  of  Technology,  at  Pittsburgh.  Before 
graduation  he  became  Technical  Director  of  the  school's 
productions. 

In  1922  Mr.  Smith  was  Technical  Director  of  the  Virginia 
Historical  Pageant. 


BLACKBERRYIN' 

A  COMEDY  IN  ONE  ACT 


BY  HOWARD  FORMAN  SMITH 


Characters 

MRS. WASTE,  an  old  lady  of  sixty 

PHILA  GRANGER,  a  girl  of  twenty 

MRS.  HATHAWAY,  nervous  thirty-five 

MRS.  GRANGER,  forty,  slow-moving  and  positive 

MRS.  WHITMORE,  owner  of  the  berry  house 


COPYRIGHT,  1922,  BY  FBANK  SHAT. 
All  rights  reserved. 

No  performance  of  this  play,  either  amateur  or  professional,  may  be  given  without  special 
arrangement  with  the  author's  representative,  Mr.  Norman  Lee  Swartout,  Summit,  N.  J. 


BLACKBERRYIN' 

SCENE.  The  berry-house  df  the  Whitmore  farm. 
There  is  a  scale  in  the  center,  of  the  common  variety,  set  on 
wheels  with  an  "Jk"  beam.  Boxes,  berry  crates  and  baskets  lie 
in  confusion  at  the  rear.  A  door  down  right  leads  to  the  berry 
fields;  a  rickety  chair  stands  at  the  right  center;  a  door  upper 
left  leads  down  the  mountain.  Down  left,  against  the  wall,  is 
a  table;  underneath  it  stands  a  pail  of  water  with  a  dipper  in 
it.  Above,  a  window  pierces  the  wall. 

Mrs.  Waste  comes  slowly  in  from  the  berry  field.  She  is  an 
old  woman  of  sixty,  bent  and  gray.  She  is  carrying  two  baskets. 
Near  the  scale,  she  stumbles  and  very  nearly  spills  their  contents. 
MRS.  WASTE.  Land  o'  Goshen! 

[She  deposits  the  berries  near  the  scales  and  hobbles  over  and 
scoops  herself  a  drink.  Phila  Granger  comes  in  from  the 
field  with  a  freight  of  berries.  She  is  a  fresh-looking  girl 
of  twenty.  She  starts  to  set  the  baskets  down  below  the  door. 

MRS.  WASTE.  Y're  comin'  to  the  berry  house  regular,  Phila? 
PHILA.  This  afternoon  is  a  scorcher,  ain't  it,  Mis'  Waste? 
MRS.  WASTE.  It  be  hot!  'Twon't  be  Mis'  Whitmore's  fault 

if  I  ain't  raw  and  sunburned  by  this  time. 
PHILA.    There  —  that  be  four,    and   eight   more   outside. 

Purty  fair  for  eight  hours'  work,  ain't  it? 
MRS.  WASTE.     Purty  fair.    Y're  young  and  ye  ought  to  be  a 

fast  picker.     I  got  two  here  and  seven  more  out  to  the 

end  of  the  rows.     Ye-es,  I'm  not  so  spry  as  I  might  be. 

Y're  ma's  a  quick  'un. 

PHILA.     Ma's  been  talkin'  too  much  with  Mis'  Hathaway. 
MRS.  WASTE.     Fast  tongue,  slow  fingers,  eh,  Phila? 
PHILA.    Ye  hit  the  nail,  Mis'  Waste.    Any  sign  of  Mis' 

Whitmore? 

[She  goes  to  the  back  door  and  looks  out. 


392  BLACKBERRYIN' 

MRS.  WASTE  (cautiously).     Be  ye  anxious  to  see  her? 

PHILA.     It's  about  time  for  her  to  come  up  and  weigh  our 

berries  and  pay  us  off,  ain't  it? 
MRS.  WASTE.     And  ain't  it  about  time  fer  ye  ter  tell  me 

somethin'? 

PHILA.     Eh,  what's  that? 

MRS.  WASTE.     Mis'  Whitmore's  a  tumble  proud  woman. 
PHILA.     She  hain't  no  right  to  be. 
MRS.  WASTE  (significantly).     That's  a  fine  house  she  has  down 

there  an'  a  bunch  of  money  folks  say  she  has  —  with  you 

an'  me  doin'  her  work.     D'ye  like  it? 
PHILA.     I  don't  mind  so  much. 
MRS.  WASTE.     An'  there's  a  reason  why  —  it's  that  son  o' 

hers. 

PHILA.     What  are  ye  drivin'  at,  Mis'  Waste? 
MRS.  WASTE  (in  low  confidence).     I  know  all  about  it,  Phila. 
PHILA.     About  what? 

MRS.  WASTE.     About  what  happened  yestiddy. 
PHILA.     Y're  actin'  kinda  queer  to-day,  Mis'  Waste. 
MRS.  WASTE.     Wai,  I  was  actin'  kinda  queer  yestiddy  or  I 

wouldn'ta  seen  what  I  did. 
PHILA.     Well,  what  were  ye  doin '  ? 
MRS.  WASTE.     'Bout  sundown  yestiddy,  I  took  the  short  cut 

from  the  Damon's  over  to  Dorcas'.     I  thought  I  might 

get  a  few  blackberries  on  the  way.     I  was  goin'  down  by 

the  lower  end  of  yer  pasture  — 
PHILA.     And  yer  saw  us? 
MRS.  WASTE.     I  did.     What  were  Orin  Stoddard  doin'  over 

this  way? 

PHILA.     Oliver  brought  him  along.     Wan't  he  necessary? 
MRS.  WASTE.     He  wur.     Y're  not  wearin'  yer  ring  to-day? 
PHILA.     I  was  kind  o'  feered  ter,  havin'  ter  pick  fer  Mis' 

Whitmore. 

MRS.  WASTE.     'Tain't  nobody  as  knows  it. 
PHILA.     Don't  they?     Orin  Stoddard  had  to  go  an'  talk,  of 

course. 
MRS.  WASTE.     Thet's  queer.     He  was  made  Justice  o'  the 


BLACKBERRYIN'  393 

Peace  'cause  folks  thought  he  was  the  silentest  man  in  the 

township. 
PHILA.     He  wan't  silent  about  this.     He  thought  thet  it  was 

a  funny  marriage  'cause  I  was  milkin'  and  all  that.     He's 

gone  an'  told  everybody  he  saw. 
MRS.  WASTE.     Yer  ma  know? 
PHILA.     Pa  told  her  this  noon  when  she  went  home  fer 

dinner.     She  ain't  said  much  yet  —  but  —  well,  I've  been 

keepin'  twenty  rows  away  from  her. 
MRS.  WASTE.     What  about  Mis'  Whitmore? 
PHILA.     Somebuddy'll  be  sure  to  tell  her.     Be  she  comin' 

now? 

[She  runs  to  door  left  to  look. 

MRS.  WASTE.     Not  as  yit.     She'll  be  an  angry  'un. 
PHILA  (in  sudden  panic).     Oh,  I'm  kinda  afeered  o'  her. 

She'll  be  angry,   'course  she  will.     What '11  I  do,   Mis' 

Waste? 
MRS.  WASTE  (approaching  Phila).     Stick  her  out,  o'  course. 

It'll  have  to  be  fit  sometime. 

PHILA.     She  and  Mother '11  plump  here  the  same  time. 
MRS.  WASTE.     I'll  stand  by  ye,  girl.     I'll  do  what  I  kin,  only 

let  'em  take  it  out  on  each  other. 
PHILA.     But  why  should  Mis'  Whitmore  be  objectin',  always 

eternally  objectin'  to  me?     Ain't  I  good  enough? 
MRS.  WASTE.     It's  somethin'  your  paw  or  his  paw  did  —  I 

never  knew. 

[Mrs.  Dorcas  Hathaway  enters.     She  is  a  thin,  wiry  woman 

of  thirty-five.     She  talks  quickly,  drawling  the  ends  of  her 

sentences. 
MRS.  HATHAWAY  (plumping  down  her  baskets).     Wai,  what's 

this  I'm  hearin'  about  you,  Phila? 
PHILA  (wearily).     I  kin  guess. 
MRS.  HATHAWAY.     Guess!    Guess!    Why  I  know  and  should 

'a'  knowed  long  'fore  this  afternoon.     So,  that's  what  ye 

think  o'  yer  friends.     An'  married  while  you  was  milkin'. 

That's  what  ye  think  o'  yer  maw,  an'  ye  better  be  keepin' 

an  eye  open  fer  Mis'  Whitmore.     She  ain't  an  easy  one  to 


394  BLACKBERRYIN' 

do    any    congratulatin'-n-n-.     Married    while    you    was 
milkin'  —  that  must  'a'  been  funneee. 

PHILA.     It  wasn't. 

DORCAS.  I  suppose  not.  I  recall  my  own  weddin'.  My 
Evan  just  did  look  too  meek  an'  lamblike  with  his  hair  all 
sleeked  down  an'  a  red  geranium  in  his  buttonhole.  He 
was  so  comical.  I  didn't  think  so  at  the  time,  but  I  nearly 
dies  every  time  I  looks  at  him  now  an'  recalls  him.  My, 
but  he  was  f  unneeee ! 

MRS.  WASTE.     He's  funny  naow. 

DORCAS.  Yes,  Momer,  but  he  wears  good,  Evan  does.  But 
I  suppose  weddin's  allers  appears  funny  to  all  folks  but 
them  thet's  doin'  the  splicin'.  An'  they  look  as  sheepish 
as  Scotch  collies  whether  they  be  married  while  milkin' 
or  in  the  hind  seat  of  an  automobile. 

MRS.  WASTE.     An'  yer  might  do  wus ! 
[Mrs.  Waste  goes  out  to  the  berry  field. 

DORCAS  (beside  Phila,  who  is  sitting  on  the  table).  So  ye're 
married  now,  Phila?  Do  ye  feel  different? 

PHILA.     I  can't  say  as  I  do. 

DORCAS  (purring).  Sad,  ain't  it?  Sad  thet  you  don't  feel 
different,  I  mean.  I  know  when  I  got  married,  I  thought 
I'd  feel  so  different.  But  I  didn't  and  I've  never  gotten 
over  it.  Where's  your  ring? 

PHILA.     I'm  not  wearin'  it.     Oh,  I  have  one. 

DORCAS.  I  don't  doubt  it.  You  ain't  surprizin'  no  one. 
We  all  kinda  expected  you  an'  Oliver  to  tie  up  some  day, 
though  not  so  quietlike  —  or  such  a  funny  way.  My 
Evan '11  be  sayin'  as  how  yer  ought  to  make  good  in  the 
dairy  business.  It's  somethin'  ter  be  a  Mis'  Whitmore. 
I  ought  ter  kiss  ye  an'  congratulate  ye  all  round  (She 
kisses  her)  Now  tell  us  all  about  it. 

MRS.  GRANGER  (outside  in  the  berry  patch  door).     What's  thet 
you  be  a-sayin'?    No,  I  didn't  take  no  baskets  but  my 
own.     Look  about  a  bit.     You  musta  lost  'em. 
[During   this  Phila  slips  quickly  through  the   back  door. 
Mrs.  Granger  enters  loaded  with  her  berries. 


BLACKBERRYIN' 


395 


DORCAS.     What's  the  trouble  with  Momer? 

MRS.  GRANGER.  Oh,  she  be  a-claimin'  thet  I  took  some  o' 
her  baskets. 

DORCAS.  Momer's  allers  complainin'  like  thet.  When 
folks  is  pickin'  at  a  nickel  a  pound  they  get  light-fingered 
though.  Look  at  thet  scrap  I  had  with  Rachel  Bates 
last  week.  But  Momer  imagines  powerful-1-1. 

MRS.  GRANGER.  Course  she  do.  She  don't  pick  more'n 
twenty  pounds  a  day.  She  be  a  slow  'un. 

DORCAS.     Gettin'  old  and  gettin'  mean,  Momer  is. 

MRS.  GRANGER.     Where  be  thet  da'ter  of  mine? 

DORCAS.  She  were  here  a  moment  ago.  Guess  she  musta 
slipped  aout. 

MRS.  GRANGER.  Run  away,  did  she?  She's  been  shy  in' 
away  from  me  the  hull  arternoon.  I'd  a-gone  ter  look  fer 
her  myself  but  I  didn't  want  Mis'  Whitmore  ter  think 
thet  my  da'ter  hitchin'  up  with  her  son  would  slack  my 
berry-pickin'  any. 

DORCAS.  You  ain't  angered  at  her  fer  marryin*  Oliver 
Whitmore,  be  ye? 

MRS.  GRANGER.  No.  Oliver's  a  good  feller.  Not  good 
enough  for  Phila  —  but  better  than  any  of  the  sheep  stock 
we  got  in  this  country. 

DORCAS.     Think  Mis'  Whitmore'll  be  takin'  this  hard? 

MRS.  GRANGER.  I  don't  care  a  rap  if  she  be.  If  she  don't 
think  thet  pet  son  o'  hers  has  done  a  good  thing  fer  him 
self,  she  can't  kick  up.  The  thing's  done —  Where's 
Phila?  (She  goes  to  the  rear  window)  Phila-a-a! 

DORCAS.     She's  gone  off  to  meet  him,  I  suppo-ose. 

MRS.  GRANGER.  More'n  likely.  I  want  ter  hear  about  it. 
It's  about  time  fer  her  ter  tell  her  mother.  I  should  'a' 
knowed  by  the  way  she  shet  down  on  her  talk  last  night. 
She  was  mighty  quiet-like.  I  don't  wonder,  poor  girl. 

DORCAS.  Folks  is  sayin'  Orin  Stoddard  musta  been  drunk. 
He  was  so  amused  and  talked  about  it  so  continual-1-1. 
[She  is  arranging  her  baskets  in  corner  up-stage  right. 

MRS.  GRANGER.     He  married  'em  though,  an'  it's  a  good  joke 


396  BLACKBERRYIN' 

on  Mis'  Whitmore.  She  mighta  knowed  they'd  do 
somethin'  like  thet  —  she  opposin'  'em  so  unreasonable. 

DORCAS  (purring).     But  in  a  pasture  — 

MRS.  GRANGER.     I  must  hear  about  it!     (She  looks  out  win 
dow  left)     There  she  is  now!     Phila-a-a-a. 
(She  goes  out  door  at  back. 

Left  alone,  Dorcas  looks  about  and  climbs  upon  the  scale. 
She  starts  to  weigh  herself  optimistically,  using  first  the 
500-pound  weight  which  makes  the  scale  rattle  and  her  to 
jump.  While  she  is  juggling  the  balance  back  and  forth 
on  the  rod  for  the  next  largest  weight,  Mrs.  Granger  returns 
from  the  mountain  path,  hot  and  panting.  Dorcas  does 
not  see  her.  She  tiptoes  downstage  behind  Dorcas  and  to 
the  latter 's  right  and  plants  a  broad  shoe  on  the  platform. 
Dorcas  beams  at  the  result.  Then  she  spies  the  foot  and 
bounces  off  the  scale  platform) 

(Laughing)  Gettin'  fatter,  eh,  Mis'  Hathaway?  Real 
pleased  with  yerself,  wan't  ye? 

DORCAS.  Pshaw!  I  thought  fer  a  moment  my  diet  o' 
string  beans  was  workin'  —  find  yer  da'ter? 

MRS.  GRANGER.     No,  she  took  off  before  I  sta'ted. 
[Mrs.  Waste  enters  grimly. 

DORCAS.     Locate  yer  baskets,  Momer-r-r-? 

MRS.  WASTE.     No,  I  didn't. 

DORCAS.     Did  y'  look? 

MRS.  WASTE.  I  looked  up  and  down  the  berry  lot  an'  into 
the  mo  win'. 

MRS.  GRANGER.     Did  ye  look  in  the  rows? 

MRS.  WASTE.  I  went  a  piece  down  every  row  —  (Going  to 
the  back  where  Mrs.  Granger  has  placed  her  baskets)  Whose 
be  these  'uns  here?  There  be  three  o'  my  baskets. 

MRS.  GRANGER.  Them  there  be  my  lot.  Don't  you  be 
touchin'  them,  Mis'  Waste. 

MRS.  WASTE.     But  I  recalls  three  of  'em  — 

MRS.  GRANGER  (advancing).     How  d'ye  know? 

MRS.  WASTE.  Two  of  'em  had  broken  handles  an  one  had 
a  green  string. 


BLACKBERRYIN'  397 

MRS.  GRANGER.     Them's  mine  —  the  hul  thirteen ! 

MRS.  WASTE.     With  three  of  'em  mine  — 

MRS.  GRANGER.     Are  ye  callin'  me  a  thief?     I  didn't  come  up 

here  on  a  hot  day  to  have  my  berries  took  from  me ! 
MRS.  WASTE.     I  did  have  nine.     If  you  takes  them,  it's  only 

six  —  I  think  — 
DORCAS.     Oh,  shut  up,  Momer,  we  all  know  how  slow  ye 

pick.     Ye're  gettin'  old. 

\Mrs.  Whitmore  enters.     Silence  greets  her. 
DORCAS.     How  be  ye,  to-day,  Mis'  Whitmore? 
MRS.  WHITMORE.     Well,  thank  you. 
DORCAS.     Been  bad  goin'  to-day-ay-ay- 
MRS.  GRANGER.     Thet  bein'  the  case  I've  picked  thirteen 

baskets.     Want  ter  weigh  'em? 

MRS.  WHITMORE.       Not  yet. 

MRS.  GRANGER.  It's  gcttin'  nigh  on  to  five  o'clock.  I  got 
a  cow  to  milk. 

MRS.  WHITMORE.     I  thought  Phila  milked  your  cow. 

DORCAS  (after  a  moment's  silence}.  Be  it  five  now?  My 
stars,  it  do  stay  light  evenin's.  I  don't  like  it  an'  Evan 
don't  like  it.  Lose  an  hour's  work  a  day,  he  says  (with  in 
creasing  momentum)  an'  have  ye  heard  about  ol'  Mr. 
Haynes  down  Eastfield  way?  He's  got  ter  get  up  at  five 
o'clock  ol'  time,  six  o'clock  new  time,  so  as  to  get  his  store 
open  at  six  o'clock  old  time  so  as  the  men  goin'  to  work 
kin  buy  their  things.  Then  come  evenin',  when  he's 
fixin'  ter  close  up,  folks  come  in  six  o'clock  old  time,  seven 
o'clock  new  and  sets  around  till  seven  o'clock  old  time, 
eight  o'clock  new.  Then  the  farmers  come  in  nine  o'clock, 
any  time,  and  sets  around  till  ten'o'clock  old  time,  eleven 
o'clock  new.  He's  got  ter  carry  two  watches  an'  is  plumb 
done  out  from  sech  goin's  on.  [She  pauses  breathless. 

MRS.  GRANGER.     Should  think  he  would  be,  poor  ol'  man. 

DORCAS  (continuing).  Y'see,  the  funny  thing  about  ol'  Mr. 
Haynes  — 

MRS.  WHITMORE  (interrupting  her).  Interesting,  no  doubt.  Mrs. 
Granger,  I  have  recently  heard  some  extraordinary  news. 


398  BLACKBERRYIN' 

MRS.  GRANGER.     'Bout  it's  bcin'  extra-ordinary,  I  dunno. 

But  it  didn't  shock  me  none.     I  was  kinda  expectin'  it, 

though  not  in  sech  a  funny  way. 
MRS.  WHITMORE.     I  was  fearing  they  would  attempt  some 

such  thing,  though  not  in  such  an  absurd  manner.     Is  the 

girl  here? 
MRS.  GRANGER  (advancing).     Now,  before  ye  go  bullyin*  my 

gal,  I  want  ye  ter  have  yer  say  with  me  fust. 
MRS.  WHITMORE  (crossing  to  right  in  front  of  Mrs.  Granger). 

Oh,  very  well,  I'm  willing. 
MRS.  GRANGER.     Mis'  Hathaway,  kin  ye  take  a  look  around 

fer  Phila?     I  see  her  down  a  piece  toward  the  mowin'. 
DORCAS  (going}.     Don't  ye  worry.     I'll  find  her.     I  allers 

had  sharp  eyes.     Phila-a-a-a- ! 

[Dorcas  goes  out  back  door.     Mrs.  Waste  approaches  Mrs. 

Whitmore  timidly. 
MRS.  WASTE.     Mis'  Whitmore,  would  ye  jest  take  a  peek  at 

these  baskets? 
MRS.  GRANGER  (taking  her  by  the  shoulders  and  shomng  her 

toward  door  right).     Here,  suppose  you  take  a  squint  along 

the  upper  rows  o'  the  blackberry  patch. 
MRS.  WASTE  (feebly  obstinate).     But  they  ain't  there. 
MRS.  GRANGER  (shoving  her  out  the  door).    Jest  a  squint.     Ye 

might  find  somethin'  thet'll  surprise  ye. 

[Mrs.  Granger  strides  back  to  stage  left. 
MRS.  WHITMORE.     Mrs.  Granger,  is  this  a  mistake  with  the 

baskets  again?     I  don't  want  another  quarrel  like  the 

Bates  and  Hathaway  one.    What  is  the  matter  with  Mrs. 

Waste? 
MRS.  GRANGER.     Nothin',  'cept  age.     She's  gettin'  peevish* 

Now  what's  this  ye  have  ter  tell  me? 
MRS.  WHITMORE.     You  seem  to  know  about  the  whole  affair 

that  happened  in  your  pasture  last  evening? 
MRS.  GRANGER.     Only  what  I  got  from  Mis'  Bates,  who  got 

it  from  Orin  Stoddard.     Orin  married  them  in  aour  pasture 

under  a  maple  tree,  near  the  bars,  an'  very  purty  it  musta 

been. 


BLACKBERRYIN'  399 

MRS.  WHITMORE.  Undoubtedly,  quite  picturesque.  It 
seems  that  while  your  daughter  was  milking,  my  son 
drove  by.  Mr.  Stoddard,  unfortunately,  was  along  and 
in  a  humorous  mood.  He  persuaded  my  son  to  let  him 
marry  them  then  and  there.  Oliver  also  has  a  sense  of 
humor,  very  unfortunately,  and  the  illegal  ceremony  was 
performed  there  by  the  bars,  as  you  say. 

MRS.  GRANGER.       Illegal? 

MRS.  WHITMORE.  And  after  it  was  over,  my  son  drove  off 
and  your  daughter  went  back  to  her  milking.  There, 
doesn't  the  whole  thing  seem  a  lark  of  some  sort? 

MRS.  GRANGER.  No,  it  don't!  It  seems  good  and  sound, 
and  the  fact  that  your  son  drove  off  afterwards  seems  a 
want  of  character.  It  might  'a'  changed  him  a  bit. 

MRS.  WHITMORE.  But  your  daughter  went  back  to  her  milk 
ing. 

MRS.  GRANGER.  Which  is  plain  hoss  sense  and  I'm  proud  of 
her. 

MRS.  WHITMORE.  The  entire  affair  seems  too  foolish  to  dis 
cuss. 

MRS.  GRANGER  (advancing  to  her).  Wai,  y 'ought  to  know 
why  they  done  it  so  foolish.  It  was  you  always  eternally 
objectin'  ter  my  gal  who  is  away  too  good  fer  yer  family, 
anyways.  When  sech  a  couple  takes  it  in  their  heads 
ter  get  married,  why  'course  they  up  an'  does.  And  it 
comes  time  fer  folks  sech  as  you  an'  me  ter  know  it.  It 
was  yer  eternal  objectin'  thet  drove  'em  to  form  holy  bonds 
o'  matrimony  in  a  caow  pasture. 

MRS.  WHITMORE.      Humph! 

MRS.  GRANGER.  'Course  you  an'  me  is  peeved,  natural, 
'cause  we  wan't  there  to  witness  it.  But  it  bein'  done, 
we  got  ter  swaller  it,  don't  we? 

MRS.  WHITMORE.     I  don't  propose  to  swallow  it. 

MRS.  GRANGER  (thunderingly  sarcastic).  Allers  eternally  ob 
jectin',  ain't  ye?  It  goes  back  to  the  time  when  yer  paw 
an'  my  paw  had  some  oats  together  which  they  fit  over. 
An'  to  come  right  down  to  it,  you  been  thinkin'  thet  we 


400  BLACKBERRYIN' 

Granger  folks  ain't  quite  up  ter  yer  ever  sence  yer  man 
sta'ted  rollin'  up  his  bank  account  an'  ye  got  to  go  South 
ter  Floridy  winters ! 

MRS.  WHITMORE.  Perhaps  we  had  better  not  argue,  Mrs. 
Granger.  To  save  useless  talk,  I  want  you  to  know  that 
I  am  going  to  have  the  marriage  annulled. 

MRS.  GRANGER.       Why? 

MRS.  WHITMORE.     It  was  illegal! 

[Dorcas  pushes  Phila  over  the  doorstep. 
DORCAS.     Here  she  be  —  wild  as  a  deer.     I  don't  blame  ye, 

Phila,  fer  holdin'  back 
MRS.  WHITMORE.     Miss  Granger? 
PHILA.     Yes,  Mis'  Whitmore? 
MRS.  WHITMORE.     Were  you  married  to  my  son  yesterday 

afternoon? 
PHILA.     Yes,  Mis'  Whitmore,  I  was. 

MRS.  WHITMORE.      Why? 

PHILA  (hesitating  bashfully) .     Because  —  I  love  him  and  I 

think  —  he  loves  me  — 
MRS.  WHITMORE.     You  think? 

MRS.  GRANGER.     She  knows  it  if  thet's  what  you  want ! 
MRS.  WHITMORE.     By  why  in  a  cow  pasture  —  and  especially 

while  you  were  milking? 

DORCAS.     It's  a  good  thing  fer  a  girl  to  mi-i-ilk. 
PHILA.     Y'see,  Mis'  Whitmore,  we  wanted  ter  get  married 

fer  a  long  time  and  since  —  since  —  my  husband  .  .  . 
DORCAS.     I  stuttered  first  time,  too-o-o. 
PHILA.     Since  Oliver  was  through  college,  there  was  really 

no  reason  why  we  shouldn't. 
MRS.  GRANGER.     'Course  there  ain't  none. 
PHILA.     But  he  kept  a-sayin'  you  objected  strong.     It  only 

made  him  more  anxious,  so  he  got  Mr.  Stoddard  yestiddy. 

I  didn't  know  nothin'  'bout  it.     They  found  me  doin' 

some  chores  — 

DORCAS  (staccato  approval).     Y'have  a  level  head,  Phila-a-a. 
PHILA.     He  drove  off  afterwards  'cause  I  couldn't  start  on 

our  weddin'  trip  'til  to-night. 


BLACKBERRYIN'  401 

MRS.  WHITMORE  (startled).     To-night? 

DORCAS  (glancing  out  of  window).     Thet's  what  you  were 

hidin'  over  there  —  a  suit  case ! 
MRS.  WHITMORE  (pausing).    Did  Oliver  have  a  license? 

[Phila  nods. 

MRS.  GRANGER.     I  thought  as  much  —  all  sound  and  good! 
MRS.  WHITMORE.     Mr.  Stoddard  was  drunk,  wasn't  he? 
MRS.  GRANGER.     Drunk!    This  is  gettin'  ter  be  a  downright 

shame  on  ye,  Mis'  Whitmore ! 
PHILA.     No,  Mr.  Stoddard  was  not  drunk. 
MRS.  WHITMORE  (playing  her  trump  card).     People  thought 

so  afterward.     What  witness  did  you  have? 

[Startled  silence. 
PHILA  (blankly).     Witness? 

MRS.  GRANGER.     I  never  hcered  one  was  necessary! 
MRS.  WHITMORE  (turning  to  Mrs.  Granger).     One  is  necessary. 

In  this  case  to  prove  the  condition  of  the  person  officiating, 

and  also,  as  the  law  requires,  to  witness  the  ceremony. 
MRS.  GRANGER.     I'm  not  standin'  much  more.     Y're  playin* 

too  hard  on  my  gal's  f  eelin's ! 
DORCAS  (leaning  against  the  door).     Yes,  I  recollects.     Ac- 

cordin'  to  law,  it  don't  pay  to  be  too  exclusive  in  weddin's 

or  funerals-Is. 

MRS.  WHITMORE.     Well,  was  there  any  other  witnessing  per 
son  there  —  besides  the  cow? 

[Mrs.  Waste  returns,  slow  and  hot. 
MRS.  WASTE.     Ain't  it  a  hot  day? 
DORCAS.     It's  a  very  hot  day,  Momer  — 
MRS.  GRANGER  (in  dark  rage).    Hain't  ye  found  yer  baskets 

yet? 

MRS.  WASTE.     No,  I  ain't. 
MRS.  GRANGER.     No  use  lookin'  at  mine. 
PHILA  (suddenly).     Mis'  Waste? 
MRS.  WASTE.     I'm  a  heerin',  Phila. 
PHILA  (going  to  her).    D'ye  recall  what  ye  wuz  tellin'  me 

'bout  half  an  hour  ago? 


402  BLACKBERRYIN' 

MRS.  WASTE.     'Course  I  recollects.     As  a  rule,  our  family 

aren't  forgetters. 

[She  flings  a  defiant  look  at  Mrs.  Granger. 
PHILA.     Tell  'em  what  ye  saw  on  the  short  cut  between  the 

Damon's  an'  Hathaways,  yestiddy  afternoon. 
MRS.  WASTE  (pursing  her  mouth).     What  fer? 
MRS.  GRANGER.     Mis'  Whitmore's  got  the  ideer  my  da'ter 

ain't  married  right. 
MRS.  WASTE.     Not  married  right? 

MRS.  GRANGER.      No! 

MRS.  WASTE  (speculatively) .     Hum-m-m- 

MRS.  GRANGER.  Wai,  did  ye  see  anythin'?  D'ye  know  any- 
thin'? 

MRS.  WASTE  (with  sudden  vigor).     Don't  be  too  hard  on  y'self ! 

DORCAS.     Momer,  don't  be  so  stubborn ! 

MRS.  WASTE  (sarcastically).  Kinder  anxious  what  I  knows, 
ain't  ye? 

MRS.  GRANGER.  Nat'rally  —  seein'  what  a  fix  my  da'ter  be 
in! 

MRS.  WASTE.     I'm  tellin'  if  —  if 

MRS.  GRANGER.      If? 

MRS.  WASTE  (sitting  back).    Wai,  I  dunno  — 

DORCAS  (provoked).    Momer,  don't  beat  about  so! 

PHILA.     Mis'  Waste! 

MRS.  WASTE.     Y'see  them  three  baskets,  thet's  including  the 

two  broken  handles   an'   them   with   the   green   string? 

Whose  be  they? 

MRS.  GRANGER.      Mine. 

MRS.  WASTE.     I  allers  puts  a  leaf  in  the  bottom  of  my  baskets. 
MRS.  GRANGER.     Are  ye  claimin'  I'm  not  straight  an'  honest? 

I  remember  fillin'  them  baskets. 
MRS.  WHITMORE.     Yes,  but  mistakes  often  happen. 
PHILA.     Ma,  let  her  look. 
MRS.  GRANGER.     Oh,  go  ahead  and  look  —  but  she  won't 

find  no  leaves  in  the  bottom. 

[Mrs.  Waste  empties  a  basket  and  turns  confronting  Mrs. 

Granger  with  a  small  green  leaf. 


BLACKBERRYIN'  403 

MRS.  GRANGER  (in  genuine  astonishment).     Wai,  I  declare! 

MRS.  WHITMORE.     It  seems  Mrs.  Waste  is  right. 

MRS.  GRANGER.  It's  mighty  funny.  I  wuz  ready  to  take 
the  oath  on  them  bein'  mine  — 

MRS.  WHITMORE.  It's  a  shame  a  thing  like  this  had  to  hap 
pen  to  you,  Mrs.  Waste. 

MRS.  GRANGER.     It's  a  mistake,  I  tell  ye. 

MRS.  WHITMORE.      No  doubt. 

MRS.  GRANGER.  Take  all  three  —  and  three  more.  I'll 
make  it  up  to  ye,  Mis'  Waste. 

MRS.  WASTE.     I  only  want  what's  mine  —  that's  all. 

MRS.  WHITMORE.  I  wish  you  all  would  be  more  careful  in 
the  future.  Don't  leave  your  filled  baskets  in  the  same 
place.  Let  us  avoid  this  uncomfortable  unpleasantness. 
Now  I  must  be  getting  back.  Mark  your  piles  and  Oliver 
will  be  up  and  weigh  them  later.  You  need  not  wait. 
[Starts  to  go. 

MRS.  WASTE  (eyeing  her  increasing  pile).     I'm  a-waitin'. 

PHILA.     Can't  —  can't  ye  be  a-tellin'  us,  Mis'  Waste? 

MRS.  WASTE.     What  was  it  ye  wanted  to  know? 

PHILA.     What  ye  saw  yestiddy  on  the  short-cut. 

MRS.  WASTE  (deliberately).  Oh,  that!  Orin  Stoddard  standin' 
beside  the  caow  straight  and  solemn  — 

MRS.  WHITMORE.     Solemn? 

MRS.  WASTE.  Ain't  he  allers  solemn  as  a  church?  This 
time  he  were  solemner  'n  ever  an'  Oliver  an'  Phila  there 
joinin'  hands.  I  heered  the  hull  thing  —  but  why  do  ye 
ask  me?  Yer  all  seem  to  know  — 

MRS.  WHITMORE  (calmly).    Go  on,  Mrs.  Waste. 

MRS.  WASTE.  Wai,  there  ain't  much  ter  tell  'cept  I  happened 
to  see  two  young  folks  married  sensible  like.  Oh,  yes, 
an'  there  was  the  caow  standin'  right  next  to  them  with 
the  milk  pail  under  her  where  Phila  had  left  off  milkin'  — 

MRS.  WHITMORE  (suddenly).     Which  cow? 

MRS.  WASTE  (bewildered).     I  don't  grasp  ye? 

MRS.  WHITMORE.  I  understood  from  Oliver  that  one  of  the 
two  Granger  cows  is  dry.  Which  cow  was  the  pail  under? 


404  BLACKBERRYIN' 

MRS.   WASTE   (decidedly).     The  red  an*   white   'un.     (Mrs. 

Whitmore  nods  dully)     An'   after   it   wuz   all   over,   the 

young  Mrs.  Whitmore  set  down  an'  finished  milkin'  the 

cow  she  probably  started  as  Miss  Granger. 
MRS.  GRANGER.     Ye'll  have  to  give  in,  Mis'  Whitmore.     Ye 

hain't  the  sta'tin's  of  a  case! 
DORCAS.     Will  ye  weigh  our  berries  now-o-ow? 
MRS.  WHITMORE  (with  a  sigh).     No,  leave  them  to  Oliver. 

He'll   pay   you   off   to-morrow.     (To   Phila)      Good-by. 

You  will  have  a  pleasant  trip,  I  know. 

[She  kisses  Phila  awkwardly.     All  bend  forward  to  watch. 

She  goes  out. 

PHILA.     Thank  ye  —  mother. 
DORCAS.     Sayin'  thet's  mighty  awkward  first  time,  ain't  it? 

Let's  step  down,  Mis'  Whitmore  —  war's  over. 
MRS.  GRANGER.     You'll  be  comin'  over  before  ye  go,  eh, 

Phila? 
PHILA.     Yes,  mother. 

[Mrs.  Granger  goes  out  back  door. 
DORCAS.     I'll  be  seein'  ye  off  too.     Don't  be  late,  as  we  get 

ter  bed  early  these  evenin's. 
PHILA.     No,  I  won't. 
DORCAS.     Good-by. 

[She  follows  Mrs.  Granger. 

Mrs.  Waste  still  fumbles  with  her  baskets. 
PHILA.     Don't  be  waitin',  Mis'  Waste.     I'll  see  thet  Oliver 

marks  ye  right. 
MRS.  WASTE.     Mebbe  ye  will,   gal.     Mebbe  ye  will.     I'm 

not  thinkin'  harsh  o*  yer  mother. 
PHILA.     I  know.     Mother's  that  way. 
MRS.  WASTE.     She  wuz  fightin'  fer  ye. 
PHILA.     Yes,  mother's  that  way,  too. 
MRS.  WASTE.     Wai,  good-by,  Phila. 
PHILA.     Good-by,  Mis'  Waste. 
MRS.  WASTE  (looking  up  into  her  face).     A-startin'  on  yer 

honeymoon.     I   recalls   well   the   time   I   did.     It's   the 


BLACKBERRYIN'  405 

happiest  time  in  life.     Phila,  let  me  tell  ye.     Don't  let  it 
slip  too  fast.     Make  the  most  o'  yer  honeymoon. 

PHILA  (happily).     I'm  goin'  to. 

MRS.  WASTE.  I  wish  I  could  warn  ye  'bout  the  little  things 
in  life  —  but  warnin's  never  did  me  no  good  —  an'  prob 
ably  won't  do  you. 

PHILA.     Don't  be  thinkin'  thet. 

MRS.  WASTE.  Pshaw,  girl !  An  old  woman's  kind  er  jealous 
an'  don't  want  ter  climb  home  an'  dig  pertaters.  Good-by. 
[She  goes  out. 

PHILA  (following).  Thank  you  fer  everythin*.  Good-by! 
(She  comes  back  and  picks  out  a  straw  suit  case  from  among 
the  clutter  of  boxes  at  the  back.  From  without  comes  a  shrill 
merry  whistle.  A  man's  voice  calls)  Phila-a-a? 
[Phila  runs  to  the  door  at  the  back.  She  waves  her  hand 
eagerly  —  skips  out. 

CUETAIN 


THE  STRONGER  WOMAN 
MOTHERLY  LOVE 

AUGUST  STRINDBERG 

AUGUST  STRINDBERG  was  born  January  22,  1849,  at  Stock 
holm,  Sweden.  Though  he  wrote  in  many  other  forms  he  is 
best  known  as  a  dramatist.  "Motherly  Love"  (1893)  and 
"The  Stronger  Woman"  (1890)  are  two  of  his  jtrongest 
short  plays. 

He  died  May  14,  1912.  A  striking  study  is  "August 
Strindberg",  by  A.  J.  Uppvall. 


THE  STRONGER  WOMAN 

A  PLAY  IN  ONE  ACT 


BY  AUGUST  STRINDBERG 


Characters 

MRS.  X.,  actress,  married. 
Miss  Y.,  actress,  unmarried. 


THE  STRONGER  WOMAN 

SCENE.  A  nook  in  a  ladies9  cafe;  two  small  tables,  a  red 
plush  sofa  and  some  chairs. 

Mrs.  X.  enters  in  winter  dress,  in  a  hat  and  cloak,  with  a  light 
Japanese  basket  over  her  arm.  Miss  Y.  sits  in  front  of  an  un 
finished  bottle  of  beer  and  reads  an  illustrated  paper,  which  she 
subsequently  exchanges  for  another. 

MRS.  x.  How  are  you,  my  dear  Millie?  You  look  awfully 
lonely,  at  this  gay  time  of  year,  sitting  here  all  by  yourself, 
like  a  poor  bachelor  girl. 

(Miss  Y.  looks  up  from  her  paper,  nods  and  continues  her 
reading} 

It  makes  me  really  quite  sorry,  to  look  at  you.  All  alone 
at  a  cafe  when  all  the  rest  of  us  are  having  such  a  good 
time  of  it !  It  reminds  me  of  how  I  felt  when  I  saw  a 
wedding  party  once,  in  a  Paris  restaurant,  and  the  bride 
sat  and  read  a  comic  paper  while  the  bridegroom  played 
billiards  with  the  witnesses.  If  they  begin  like  this,  I 
said  to  myself,  how  will  they  go  on,  and  how  will  they  end? 
Fancy !  He  was  playing  billiards  on  the  night  of  his  wed 
ding  —  and  she  was  reading  an  illustrated  paper !  Oh, 
well,  but  Ty°u  are  n°t  quite  in  the  same  box!  (Waitress 
enters,  puts  a  cup  of  chocolate  in  front  of  Mrs.  X.,  and  exits') 
I  say,  Millie,  I'm  not  at  all  sure  you  wouldn't  have  done 
better  to  have  kept  him.  If  you  come  to  think  of  it,  I 
was  the  first  to  ask  you  to  forgive  him  at  the  time.  Don't 
you  remember?  Why,  you  could  have  been  married  now, 
and  have  had  a  home!  Do  you  remember  how  delighted 
you  were  at  Christmas  when  you  stayed  with  yourfiancPs 
people  in  the  country?  You  were  quite  enthusiastic  over 
domestic  happiness  and  quite  keen  on  getting  away  from 
the  theatre.  After  all,  my  dear  Amelia,  there's  nothing 


412  THE  STRONGER  WOMAN 

like  home,  sweet  home  —  after  the  profession,  of  course !  — 
and  the  kids.  Isn't  it  so?  But  you  couldn't  understand 
that! 

(Miss  Y.  looks  contemptuous.     Mrs.  X.  drinks  some  spoon 
fuls  of  chocolate  out  of  her  cup,  then  opens  the  basket  and ' 
Jooks  at  the  Christmas  presents) 

There,  let  me  show  you  what  I've  bought  for  my  little 
chicks.  (Takes  up  a  doll)  Just  look  at  this!  That's 
for  Lisa.  Just  look,  it  can  roll  its  eyes  and  waggle  its 
neck.  What?  And  here's  Maja's  cork  pistol. 
(Loads  and  shoots  at  Miss  Y.  Miss  Y.  gives  a  start) 
Are  you  frightened?  Did  you  think  I  wanted  to  shoot 
you,  dear?  Upon  my  word  I'd  never  have  thought  you'd 
have  thought  that.  I'd  have  been  much  less  surprised  if 
you'd  wanted  to  shoot  me,  for  getting  in  your  way.  /  know 
that  you  can  never  forget  anything,  although  I  was  abso 
lutely  innocent.  You  believed,  of  course,  that  I  worked 
it  to  get  you  out  of  the  Grand  Theatre,  but  I  didn't  do 
that.  I  didn't  do  it,  although  you  think  I  did.  But  it 
makes  no  odds  my  saying  all  this,  for  you  always  think 
it  was  me.  (Takes  out  a  pair  of  embroidered  slippers) 
These  are  for  my  hubby,  with  tulips  on  them  which  I 
embroidered  myself.  I  can't  stand  tulips,  you  know, 
but  he's  awfully  keen  on  them. 

(Miss  Y.  looks  up  ironically  and  curiously  from  her  paper. 
Mrs.  X.  holds  a  slipper  up  in  each  hand) 
Just  look  what  small  feet  Bob  has,  eh!    You  should  just 
see,  dear,  how  well  he  carries  himself.      But  of  course 
youVe  never  seen  him  in  slippers,  have  you,  dear? 
(Miss  Y.  laughs  loudly) 
Look,  you  must  see. 

(She  walks  the  slippers  upon  the  table.  Miss  Y.  laughs 
loudly) 

Just  see  here.  This  is  the  way  he  always  stamps  about 
whenever  he's  out  of  sorts,  like  this.  "Eh,  that  damned 
girl  will  never  learn  how  to  make  coffee !  Ugh !  And  now 
the  confounded  idiot  has  trimmed  the  lamp  wrong!"  The 


THE  STRONGER  WOMAN  413 

next  minute  there's  a  draught  and  his  feet  get  cold.  "Oof, 
how  cold  it  is,  and  that  blighted  fool  can  never  manage  to 
keep  the  fire  going." 

(She  rubs  the  soles  of  the  slippers  one  against  the  other. 
Miss  Y.  laughs  out  loud) 

And  this  is  how  he  goes  on  when  he  comes  home  and  looks 
for  his  slippers:  which  Mary  puts  under  the  chest  of 
drawers. 

Oh,  it's  a  shame  for  me  to  sit  here  and  give  my  husband 
away.  He's  a  good  sort,  at  any  rate,  and  that's  something, 
I  can  tell  you.  Yes,  you  should  have  a  husband  like 
that,  Amelia;  yes,  you,  my  dear.  What  are  you  laughing 
at?  Eh?  Eh? 

And  I'll  tell  you  how  I  know  he's  faithful!  I  am  sure  of 
it,  for  he  told  me  so  of  his  own  accord.  What  are  you 
giggling  at?  Why,  when  I  went  for  a  trip  in  Norway,  that 
ungrateful  Frederique  ran  after  him  and  tried  to  se 
duce  him  —  can  you  think  of  anything  so  disgraceful ! 
(Pause)  I'd  have  scratched  the  eyes  out  of  the  creature's 
head,  that  I  would,  if  she'd  come  playing  around  when  I 
was  on  the  scene!  (Pause)  It  was  lucky  that  Bob  told 
me  of  his  own  accord,  so  that  I  didn't  get  to  hear  of  it 
first  from  a  lot  of  sneaking  scandalmongers.  (Pause) 
But  Frederique  was  not  the  only  one,  you  may  say.  I 
didn't  know  it,  but  the  women  are  absolutely  crazy  over 
my  husband.  They  think  he  is  awfully  influential  in 
getting  engagements  just  because  he  holds  an  official 
position !  It  may  be  that  you,  too,  have  tried  to  run  after 
him  —  I  don't  trust  you  more  than  need  be  —  anyway. 
I  know  that  he  doesn't  bother  about  you  and  that  you  seem 
to  have  a  grudge  against  him,  and  consequently  against 
me,  the  whole  time!  (Pause;  they  look  at  each  other  with 
embarrassment) 

Come  around  and  see  us  to-night,  dear,  just  to  show  that 
you  don't  feel  badly  about  us,  at  any  rate  about  me!  I 
don't  know  why,  but  somehow  I  feel  that  it  would  be 
particularly  ungracious  of  me  to  be  unfriendly  towards 


414  THE  STRONGER  WOMAN 

you  of  all  people.  It  may  be  because  I  cut  you  out. 
(Speaking  more  slowly)  Or  —  or  —  I  can't  tell  the  reason. 
(Miss  Y.  stares  at  Mrs.  X.  curiously.  Mrs.  X.  continues 
reflectively) 

But  everything  went  wrong,  when  you  came  to  our  house, 
because  I  saw  that  my  husband  couldn't  stand  you  —  and 
I  felt  quite  uncomfortable  as  though  there  was  a  hitch 
somewhere,  and  I  did  all  I  could  to  make  him  show  him 
self  friendly  towards  you,  but  without  success  —  until  you 
went  and  got  engaged,  and  then  a  keen  friendship  sprang 
up,  so  that  it  seemed  for  a  moment  as  though  you  had 
only  first  dared  to  show  your  true  feelings  when  you  were 
in  safety  —  and  then  ft  went  on !  —  I  didn't  get  jealous  — 
strangely  enough  —  and  I  remember  the  christening  when 
you  stood  godmother  and  I  made  him  kiss  you.  Yes,  I 
did  that,  and  you  got  so  embarrassed  —  I  mean  I  didn't 
notice  it  at  the  time  —  I  haven't  thought  of  it  since  then 
either,  I  haven't  thought  of  it  from  then  till  now.  (Gets 
up  sharply) 

Why  don't  you  say  something?  You  haven't  said  a  word 
the  whole  time,  but  have  just  let  me  sit  here  and  talk; 
you  have  sat  there  with  those  eyes  of  yours  and  picked 
up  all  my  thoughts  —  thoughts !  —  hallucinations,  per 
haps  —  and  worked  them  into  your  chain,  link  by  link. 
Ah,  let  me  see.  Why  did  you  break  off  your  engagement, 
and  why,  from  that  day  to  this,  have  you  never  come 
any  more  to  our  house?  Why  won't  you  come  in,  in  the 
evening? 

( Miss  Y.  seems  as  though  she  were  about  to  speak) 
Stop!  You  needn't  say  it!  I  quite  understand  now. 
It  was  because  and  because  and  because.  Yes,  it  all  fits 
in!  That's  what  it  is.  Ugh,  I  won't  sit  at  the  same  table 
with  you.  (Moves  her  things  to  another  table)  That  was 
why  I  had  to  embroider  tulips  on  his  slippers,  though  I 
couldn't  stand  them;  that  was  why.  (Throws  the  slippers 
on  the  floor) 

That  was  why  I  had  to  spend  the  summer  at  Lake  Malarn, 
because  you  couldn't  stand  sea  air;  that  was  why  my  boy 


THE  STRONGER  WOMAN  415 

had  to  be  called  Eskil,  because  it  was  your  father's  name; 
that  was  why  I  had  to  wear  your  colors,  read  your  authors, 
eat  your  favorite  dishes,  drink  your  drinks,  —  chocolate, 
for  instance;  that  was  why. 

Oh,  my  God!  it  is  ghastly  to  think  of,  ghastly;  everything 
I  got  came  from  you  to  me,  even  your  passions!  Your 
soul  crept  into  mine  like  a  worm  into  an  apple,  ate  and  ate 
—  burrowed  and  burrowed,  till  there  was  nothing  left  but 
the  rotten  core. 

I  wanted  to  avoid  you,  but  I  could  not;  you  lay  there  like 
a  serpent  with  your  black  eyes  of  fascination  —  I  knew 
that  you  would  succeed  at  last  in  dragging  me  down; 
I  was  lying  in  a  swamp  with  my  feet  tied,  and  the  more 
violently  I  struggled  with  my  hands,  the  deeper  did  I 
work  -down,  down  to  the  bottom,  while  you  lay  there  like 
a  giant  crab  and  gripped  me  in  your  claws;  and  now  here 
I  am  at  the  bottom! 

Oh,  how  I  hate  you,  hate  you,  hate  you!  But  you,  you 
just  sit  there  and  say  nothing,  quiet,  indifferent  —  in 
different.  It  is  all  the  same  to  you  if  it  is  the  beginning 
or  the  end  of  the  month;  Christmas  or  New  Year;  if  the 
rest  of  the  world  is  happy  or  unhappy;  you  can  neither 
hate  nor  love;  you  sit  as  stolidly  as  a  stork  over  a  rat- 
trap.  But  you  couldn't  capture  your  prey,  mind  you; 
you  couldn't  pursue  it;  you  could  only  wait  for  it. 
Here  you  sit  in  your  lair  —  this  nook,  you  know,  has  been 
called  the  Rat  Trap  —  and  you  read  your  papers  to  see  if 
somebody's  having  a  bad  time  of  it,  if  somebody's  had  a 
misfortune,  if  somebody's  been  sacked  from  the  theater. 
Here  you  sit  and  survey  your  victims,  reckon  out  your 
chances  like  a  pilot  his  shipwrecks;  take  your  toll. 
My  poor  Amelia,  do  you  know,  I  feel  quite  sorry  for  you, 
because  I  know  that  you  are  wretched,  wretched,  like  a 
wounded  creature,  and  malicious  because  you  are  wounded. 
I  cannot  be  angry  with  you,  although  I  should  like  to  be, 
because  you  are  the  weaker  —  why,  as  to  that  little  affair 
with  Bob,  I  am  not  bothering  about  that  —  what  did  it 
really  matter  to  me?  Supposing  it  was  you  or  somebody 


416  THE  STRONGER  WOMAN 

else  who  taught  me  to  eat  chocolate,  what  does  it  matter? 
(Drinks  a  spoonful  out  of  her  cup)  Besides,  chocolate  is 
very  wholesome,  and  if  I  did  learn  to  dress  myself  in  your 
model,  well  tant  mieux  —  it  only  strengthens  my  hold 
upon  my  husband  —  and  you  were  the  loser  by  it  while 
I  was  the  winner. 

Why,  I  had  ample  grounds  for  coming  to  the  conclusion 
that  you  had  already  lost  him  —  but  it  was  you  still 
thought  that  I  should  go  my  way!  But  now  you  carry 
on  as  though  you  were  sitting  and  repenting;  but,  you  see, 
I  don't  do  that.  One  mustn't  be  petty,  you  know. 
Why  should  I  just  take  what  nobody  else  will  have?  Per 
haps  you  —  taking  it  all  round  —  are  stronger  than  I  am 
at  this  particular  moment  —  you  never  got  anything  out 
of  me  but  you  .gave  me  something  of  yourself.  Oh,  it's 
really  a  case  of  thieving,  in  my  case,  isn't  it?  —  and  when 
you  woke  up  I  had  possessed  myself  of  the  very  thing  you 
missed. 

How  else  does  it  come  about  that  everything  you  touched 
became  worthless  and  sterile?  You  couldn't  keep  any 
man's  love,  with  those  tulips  and  those  passions  of  yours  — 
but  I  could;  you  weren't  able  to  learn  the  art  of  my  life 
out  of  your  authors,  but  I  learnt  it;  you  haven't  got  any 
little  Eskil,  although  your  papa  was  called  Eskil. 
Else  why  do  you  sit  there  without  a  word,  and  brood  and 
brood  and  brood?  I  thought  it  was  strength,  but  perhaps 
the  reason  is  just  that  you  haven't  anything  to  say,  that's 
because  you  couldn't  think  of  anything  to  say.  (Rises 
and  takes  up  the  slippers) 

I'm  going  home  now  —  and  taking  these  tulip  things  with 
me  —  your  tulips,  my  dear;  you  couldn't  learn  anything 
from  others  —  you  couldn't  yield,  and  that's  why  you 
crumpled  up  like  a  dried-up  leaf.  I  didn't  do  that.  I 
must  really  thank  you,  Amelia,  for  the  excellent  training 
you  have  given  me  —  thank  you  for  teaching  my  hus 
band  how  to  love.  And  now  I'm  going  home  to  love  him. 
[Exits. 

CURTAIN 


MOTHERLY  LOVE 
A  PLAY  IN  ONE  ACT 


BY  AUGUST  STRINDBERG 


Characters 

THE  MOTHER 
A  DRESSER 
THE  DAUGHTER 
LISE 


MOTHERLY  LOVE 

The  Mother  and  the  Dresser  are  smoking  cigars,  drinking 
stout,  and  playing  cards.  The  Daughter  sits  by  the  window 
and  looks  out  with  intentness. 

MOTHER.     Come  along,  Helen  —  it's  your  deal. 

DAUGHTER.     Oh,  please  let  me  off  playing  cards  on  a  fine 

summer  day  like  this. 
DRESSER.     That's    right.     Nice    and    affectionate    to    her 

mother,  as  usual. 
MOTHER.     Don't    sit    like   that   on   the   veranda   and   get 

scorched. 

DAUGHTER.     The  sun  isn't  a  bit  hot  here. 
MOTHER.     Well,  there's  a  draught,  anyway.     (To  the  Dresser) 

Your  deal,  dear.     Righto! 
DAUGHTER.     Mayn*t  I  go  and  bathe  this  morning  with  the 

other  girls? 
MOTHER.     Not  without  your  mamma;   you  know  that  once 

for  all. 

f         A-        -      •     -i 

DAUGHTER.  Oh,  but  the  girls  can  swim,  mamma,  and  you 
can't  swim  at  all. 

MOTHER.  That's  not  the  question,  whether  a  body  can  swim 
or  can't,  but  you  know,  my  child,  that  you  mustn't  go 
out  without  your  mamma. 

DAUGHTER.  Do  I  know  it?  Since  I've  been  able  to  under 
stand  the  simplest  thing,  that's  been  dinned  into  my  ears. 

DRESSER.  That  only  shows  that  Helen  has  had  a  most 
affectionate  mother,  who  has  always  tried  her  best.  Yes 
—  yes,  no  doubt  about  it. 

MOTHER  (holds  out  her  hand  to  the  Dresser).  Thank  you  for 
your  kindly  words,  Augusta  —  whatever  else  I  may  have 
been  —  that  —  but  I  was  always  a  tender-hearted  mother. 
I  can  say  that  with  a  clear  conscience. 


420  MOTHERLY  LOVE 

DAUGHTER.  Then  I  suppose  it's  no  good  my  asking  you  if 
I  can  go  down  and  have  a  game  of  tennis  with  the 
others? 

DRESSER.  No,  no,  young  lady.  A  girl  shouldn't  sauce  her 
mamma.  And  when  she  won't  oblige  those  who  are 
nearest  and  dearest  to  her,  by  taking  part  in  their  harmless 
fun,  it's  in  a  manner  of  speaking  adding  insult  to  injury 
for  her  to  come  and  ask  on  top  of  it,  if  she  can't  go  and 
amuse  herself  with  other  people. 

DAUGHTER.  Yes  —  yes  —  yes.  I  know  all  that  already.  I 
know  —  I  know ! 

MOTHER.  You're  making  yourself  disagreeable  again.  Get 
something  proper  to  do,  and  don't  sit  slacking  there  in  that 
fashion.  A  grown-up  girl  like  you! 

DAUGHTER.  Then  why  do  you  always  treat  me  like  a  child 
if  I'm  grown  up? 

MOTHER.     Because  you  behave  like  one. 

DAUGHTER.  You  have  no  right  to  rag  me  —  you  yourself 
wanted  me  to  remain  like  this. 

MOTHER.  Look  here,  Helen;  for  some  time  past  I  think 
you've  been  a  bit  too  bloomin'  smart.  Come,  whom  have 
you  been  talking  to  down  here? 

DAUGHTER.     With  you  two,  amongst  others. 

MOTHER.  You  don't  mean  to  say  you're  going  to  start  hav 
ing  secrets  from  your  own  mother? 

DAUGHTER.     It's  about  time. 

DRESSER.  Shame  on  you,  you  young  thing,  being  so  cheeky 
to  your  own  mother. 

MOTHER.  Come,  let's  do  something  sensible  instead  of 
jangling  like  this.  Why  not  come  here,  and  read  over 
your  part  with  me. 

DAUGHTER.  The  manager  said  I  wasn't  to  go  through  it 
with  any  one,  because  if  I  did,  I  should  only  learn  some 
thing  wrong. 

MOTHER.  I  see;  so  that's  the  thanks  one  gets  for  trying  to 
help  you.  Of  course,  of  course!  Everything  that  I  do  is 
always  silly,  I  suppose. 


MOTHERLY  LOVE  421 

DAUGHTER.     Why  do  you  do  it,  then?     And  why  do  you 
^  put    the    blame    on    me,    whenever    you    do    anything 
wrong? 

DRESSER.  Of  course  you  want  to  remind  your  mother  that 
she  ain't  educated?  Ugh,  'ow  common! 

DAUGHTER.  You  say  I  want  to,  aunt,  but  it's  not  the  case. 
If  mother  goes  and  teaches  me  anything  wrong,  I've  got 
to  learn  the  whole  thing  over  again,  if  I  don't  want  to  lose 
my  engagement.  We  don't  want  to  find  ourselves 
stranded. 

MOTHER.  I  see.  You're  now  letting  us  know  that  we're 
living  on  what  you  earn.  But  do  you  really  know  what 
you  owe  Aunt  Augusta  here?  Do  you  know  that  she 
looked  after  us  when  your  blackguard  of  a  father  left  us 
in  the  lurch?  —  that  she  took  care  of  us  and  that  you 
therefore  owe  her  a  debt  which  you  can  never  pay  off  — 
in  all  your  born  days?  Do  you  know  that?  (Daughter  is 
silent)  Do  you  know  that?  Answer! 

DAUGHTER.     I  refuse  to  answer. 

MOTHER.     You  do  —  do  you?    You  won't  answer? 

DRESSER.  Steady  on,  Amelia.  The  people  next  door  might 
hear  us,  and  they'd  start  gossiping  again.  So  you  go 
steady. 

MOTHER  (to  Daughter).  Put  on  your  things  and  come  out 
for  a  walk. 

DAUGHTER.     I'm  not  going  out  for  a  walk  to-day. 

MOTHER.     This  is  now  the  third  day  that  you've  refused  to 
go  out  for  a  walk  with  your  mother.     (Reflecting)    Would 
it  be  possible  —    Go  out  on  to  the  veranda,  Helen.     I 
want  to  say  something  to  Aunt  Augusta. 
(Daughter  exits  on  to  the  veranda) 
Do  you  think  it's  possible? 

DRESSER.     What? 

MOTHER.     That's  she's  found  out  something? 

DRESSER.     It  ain't  possible. 

MOTHER.  It  might  'appen,  of  course.  Not  that  I  think 
anybody  could  be  so  heartless  as  to  tell  it  to  her  face.  I 


422  MOTHERLY  LOVE 

had  a  nephew  who  was  thirty-six  years  old  before  he 
found  out  that  his  father  was  a  suicide,  but  Helen's 
manner's  changed,  and  there's  something  at  the  bottom 
of  it.  For  the  last  eight  days  I've  noticed  that  she 
couldn't  bear  my  being  with  her  on  the  promenade. 
She  would  only  go  along  lonely  paths;  when  any  one 
met  us  she  looked  the  other  way;  she  was  nervous, 
couldn't  manage  to  get  a  single  word  out.  There's 
something  behind  all  this. 

DRESSER.  Do  you  mean,  if  I  follow  you  aright,  that  the 
society  of  her  mother  is  painful  to  her?  —  the  society 
of  her  own  mother? 

MOTHER.     Yes. 

DRESSER.     No;  that's  really  a  bit  too  bad. 

MOTHER.  Well,  I'll  tell  you  something  which  is  even  worse. 
Would  you  believe  it,  that  when  we  came  here,  she  didn't 
introduce  me  to  some  of  her  friends  on  the  steamer? 

DRESSER.  Do  you  know  what  I  think?  She's  met  some  one 
or  other  who's  come  here  during  the  last  week.  Come,  we'll 
just  toddle  down  to  the  post  office  and  find  out  about 
the  latest  arrivals. 

MOTHER.  Yes,  let's  do  that.  I  say,  Helen,  just  mind  the 
house  a  minute.  We're  only  going  down  to  the  post  for 
a  moment.  [Daughter  r centers  from  veranda) 

DAUGHTER.     Yes,  manyjia. 

MOTHER  (to  Dresser).  It's  just  as  though  I'd  dreamt  all  this 
before. 

DRESSER.     Yes;    dreams   come  true   sometimes  —  I   know 
that  all  right  —  but  not  the  nice  ones. 
[Exeunt  right. 
Daughter  gives  a  nod  out  of  the  window;  Lise  enters.     She 

wears  a  tennis  costume  quite  white,  and  a  white  hat. 

LISE.     Have  they  gone? 

DAUGHTER.     Yes;  but  they're  soon  coming  back. 

USE.     Well,  what  did  your  mother  say? 

DAUGHTER.  I  haven't  even  had  the  pluck  to  ask  her.  She 
was  in  such  a  temper. 


MOTHERLY  LOVE  423 

LISE.     Poor  Helen!     So  you  can't  come  with  us  on  the 
excursion?     And  I  was  looking  forward  to  it  so  much. 
If  you  only  knew  how  fond  I  am  of  you. 
[Kisses  her. 

DAUGHTER.  If  you  only  knew,  dear,  what  these  days  have 
meant  to  me  since  I've  made  your  acquaintance  and 
visited  your  house  —  have  meant  to  a  girl  like  me,  who's 
never  mixed  with  decent  people  in  her  whole  life.  Just 
think  what  it  must  have  been  for  me.  Up  to  the  present 
I've  been  living  in  a  den  where  the  air  was  foul,  where 
shady,  mysterious  people  came  in  and  out,  who  spied  and 
brawled  and  wrangled;  where  I  have  never  heard  a  kind 
word,  much  less  ever  got  a  caress,  and  where  my  soul  was 
watched  like  a  prisoner.  Oh,  I'm  talking  like  this  about 
my  mother,  and  it  hurts  me!  And  you  will  only  despise 
me  for  it. 

LISE.     One  can't  be  made  responsible  for  one's  parents. 

DAUGHTER.  No,  but  you've  got  to  pay  the  penalty  for  them. 
At  any  rate  they  say  that  very  often  one  doesn't  find  out 
before  the  end  of  one's  life  the  kind  of  people  one's  own 
parents,  with  whom  one's  lived  all  one's  life,  have  really 
been.  And  I've  picked  up  this  as  well,  even  if  one  does 
get  to  hear  about  it,  one  doesn't  believe  a  word. 

LISE  (uneasily).     Have  you  heard  anything? 

DAUGHTER.  Yes.  When  I  was  in  the  bathhouse  three  days 
ago  I  heard  through  the  wall  what  people  were  saying 
about  my  mother.  Do  you  know  what  it  was? 

LISE.     Don't  bother  about  it. 

DAUGHTER.  They  said  my  mother  had  been  just  a  common 
creature!  I  wouldn't  believe  it;  I  won't  yet  believe  it. 
But  I  feel  that  it  is  true;  it  all  fits  in  —  to  make  it  prob 
able  —  and  I  am  ashamed  —  ashamed  of  going  near  her, 
because  I  think  that  people  stare  at  us  —  that  the  men 
throw  us  looks.  It's  too  awful.  But  is  it  true?  Tell  me 
if  you  think  that  it's  true?  ^_ 

LISE.     People  tell  so  many  lies  —  and  I  don't  know  any-    j 


424  MOTHERLY  LOVE 

DAUGHTER.  Yes,  you  do  know  —  you  do  know  something. 
You  won't  tell  me,  and  I  thank  you  for  it  J  but  I  am 
equally  miserable  whether  you  tell  me  or  whether  you 
don't. 

LJSE.  My  darling  friend,  knock  that  thought  out  of  your 
head  and  come  home  to  us  —  you'll  find  you'll  get  on 
splendidly  with  every  one.  My  father  arrived  early  this 
morning.  He  asked  after  you,  and  wanted  to  see  you  — 
I  ought,  of  course,  to  tell  you  they  have  written  to  him 
about  you  —  and  Cousin  Gerhard  as  well,  because  I 
think  — 

DAUGHTER.  Yes,  you  —  you  have  a  father  and  I  had  one 
too,  when  I  was  still  quite,  quite  tiny. 

LISE.     What  became  of  him,  then? 

DAUGHTER.  Mother  always  says  he  left  us  because  he  was 
a  bad  lot. 

LISE.  It's  hard  to  find  where  the  truth  lies.  But  —  I  tell 
you  what;  if  you  come  home  to  us  now,  you'll  meet  the 
director  of  the  Imperial  Theatre,  and  it's  possible  it  might 
be  a  question  of  an  engagement. 

DAUGHTER.     What  do  you  say? 

USE.  Yes,  yes  —  that's  it.  And  he  takes  an  interest  in 
you  —  I  mean  Gerhard  —  and  I  have  made  him  take  an 
interest  in  you,  and  you  know  quite  well  what  trifles  often 
decide  one's  whole  life;  a  personal  interview,  a  good  rec 
ommendation  at  the  right  moment,  —  well,  now,  you 
can't  refuse  any  longer,  without  standing  in  the  way  of 
your  own  career. 

DAUGHTER.  Oh,  darling,  I  should  think  I  did  want  to  come. 
You  know  that  quite  well;  but  I  don't  go  out  without 
mamma. 

LISE.     Why  not?     Can  you  give  me  any  reason? 

DAUGHTER.  I  don't  know.  She  taught  me  to  say  that 
when  I  was  a  child.  And  now  it's  got  deeply  rooted. 

LISE.     Has  she  extracted  some  promise  from  you? 

DAUGHTER.  No,  she  didn't  have  any  need  to  do  that.  She 
just  said  "Say  that!"  and  I  said  it. 


MOTHERLY  LOVE  425 

LISE.     Do  you  think  then  that  you're  doing  her  a  wrong  if 

you  leave  her  for  an  hour  or  two? 
DAUGHTER.     I  don't  think  that  she  would  miss  me,  because 

when  I  am  at  home  she's  always  got  some  fault  to  find 

with  me.     But  I  should  find  it  painful  if  I  went  to  a  house 

when  she  wasn't  allowed  to  come  too. 
LISE.     Do  you  mean  to  say  you've  thought  of  the  possibility 

of  her  visiting  us? 
DAUGHTER.     No,  —  God  forgive  me,  I  never  thought  of  it 

for  a  moment. 

LISE.     But  supposing  you  were  to  get  married? 
DAUGHTER.     I  shall  never  get  married. 
LISE.     Has  your  mother  taught  you  to  say  that  as  well? 
DAUGHTER.     Yes,  probably.     She  has  always  warned  me  of 


™-  ,„ 

LISE.     Of  mamficLsifin  as  well? 

DAUGHTER.     Presumably. 

LISE.  Look  here,  Helen;  you  should  really  emancipate 
yourself. 

DAUGHTER.  Ugh!  I  haven't  the  faintest  desire  to  be  a 
new  woman. 

LISE.  No,  I  don't  mean  that.  But  you  must  free  yourself 
from  a  position  of  dependence  which  you  have  grown  out 
of,  and  which  may  make  you  unhappy  for  life. 

DAUGHTER.  I  scarcely  think  I  shall  ever  be  able  to.  Just 
consider  how  I've  been  tied  down  to  my  mother  since  I 
was  a  child!  that  I've  never  dared  to  think  a  thought 
that  wasn't  hers;  have  never  wished  anything  but  her 
wishes.  I  know  that  it's  a  handicap;  that  it  stands  in 

.     my  way,  but  I  can't  do  anything  against  it. 

LISE.  And  if  your  mother  goes  to  rest,  one  fine  day,  you'll 
be  all  alone  in  the  world. 

DAUGHTER.     That's  how  I  shall  find  myself. 

LISE.  But  you've  got  no  set,  no  friends;  and  no  one  can 
live  as  lonely  as  all  that.  You  must  finiLsxijne-firjn  sup 
port*-  Have  you  never  been  in  love? 

DAUGHTER.     I  don't  know.     I've  never  dared  to  think  of 


426  MOTHERLY  LOVE 

anything  like  that,  and  mother  has  never  allowed  young 

men  even  to  look  at  me.     Do  you  yourself  think  of  such 

things? 
LISE.     Yes.     If  any  one's  fond  of  me  and  I  should  like  to 

have  him. 

DAUGHTER.     You'll  probably  marry  your  cousin  Gerhard. 
USE.     I  shall  never  do  that  —  because  he  does  not  love  me. 

_JDAUGHTER.      Not  love  yOU? 

I    LISE.     No;  because  he's  fond  of  you. 

..* — DAUGHTER.      Me?  ft^^/Tp 

LISE.  Yes,  —  and  he  has  Gommissionga  me  to  inquire  if  he 
can  call  on  you. 

DAUGHTER.  Here?  No,  that's  impossible.  And  besides,  do 
you  think  I  would  stand  in  your  way?  Do  you  think  I 
could  supplant  you  in  his  regard,  you  who  are  so  pretty, 
so  delicate.  (Takes  Lise's  hand  in  hers)  What  a  hand! 
And  the  wrists!  I  saw  your  foot  when  we  were  in  the 
bathhouse  together.  (Falls  on  her  knees  before  Lise,  who 
has  sat  down)  A  foot  on  which  there  isn't  even  a  crooked 
nail,  on  which  the  toes  are  as  round  and  as  rosy  as  a  baby's 
hand.  (Kisses  Lise's  foot)  You  belong  to  the  nobility  — 
you're  made  of  different  stuff  from  what  I  am. 

LISE.  Leave  off,  please,  and  don't  talk  so  sillily.  (Gets,  up) 
Jf  you  only  knew  ^but  — 

DAUGHTER?    And  I'm  sure  you're  as  good  as  you're  beautiful 
we  always  think  that  down  below  here  when  we  look  at 
you  above  there,  with  your  delicate  chiselled  features, 
where  trouble  hasn't  made  any  wrinkles,  where  envy  and 
jealousy  have  not  drawn  their  hateful  lines  — 

LISE.  Look  here,  Helen;  I  really  think  you're  quite  mad 
on  me. 

DAUGHTER.  Yes,  I  am  that,  too.  I  wish  I  were  like  you  a 
bit,  just  as  the  miserable  whitlow-grass  is  like  an  anemone, 
and  that's  why  I  see  in  you  my  better  self,  something  that 
I  should  like  to  be  and  never  can  be.  You  have  tripped 
into  my  life  during  the  last  summer  days  as  lightly  and  as 
delicately  as  an  angel;  -now  the  autumn's  come;  the  day 


MOTHERLY  LOVE  427 

after  to-morrow  we  go  back  to  town  —  then  we  shan't 
know  each  other  any  more  —  and  we  mustn't  know  each 
other  any  more.  You  can  never  draw  me  up,  dear,  buf~ 
I  can  draw  you  down  —  and  I  don't  want  to  do  that ! 
I  want  to  have  you  so  high,  so  high  and  far  away,  that  I 
can't  see  your  blemishes J  and  so  good-by,  Lise,  my  first 
and  only  friend.  ^ 


LISE.     No,  that's  enough.     Helen,  do  you  know  —  who 
am?     Well  —  I  —  am  your  sister. 

DAUGHTER.     You  —  What  can  you  mean? 

LISE.     We  have  —  the  same  father. 

DAUGHTER.  And  you  are  my  sister,  my  little  sister?  But 
what  is  my  father  then?  But  of  course  he  must  be  cap 
tain  of  a  yacht,  because  your  father  is  one.  How  silly  I 
am!  But  then  he  married,  after.  Is  he  kind  to  you? 
He  wasn't  to  my  mother. 

LISE.  You  don't  know.  But  aren't  you  awfully  glad  to 
have  found  a  little  sister  —  one,  too,  who  isn't  so  very 
loud? 

DAUGHTER.  Oh,  rather;  I'm  so  glad  that  I  really  don't 
know  what  to  say/  (Embrace)  But  I  really  daren't  be 
properly  glad  because  I  don't  know  what's  going  to  happen 
after  all  this.  What  will  mother  say,  and  what  will  it  be 
like  if  we  meet  papa? 

LISE.     Just  leave  your  mother  to  me.     She  can't  be  far 
away  now.     And  you  keep  in  the  background  till  you  are 
wanted.     A»d  now  come  and  give  me  a  kiss,  little  *mi. 
[They  kiss. 

DAUGHTER.  My  sister.  How  strange  the  words  sound,  just 
like  the  word  father  when  one  has  never  uttered  it. 

LISE.     Don't  let's  go  on  chattering  now,  but  let's  stick  to 

the  point.     Do  you  think  that  your  mother  would  still  I 

refuse  her  permission  if  we  were  to  invite  you  —  to  come 
and  see  your  sister  and  your  father? 

DAUGHTER.  Without  my  mother?  Oh,  she  hates  your  — 
my  father  so  dreadfully. 

LISE.     But  suppose  she  has  no  reason  to  do  so?     If  you  only 


.r> 
0 


428  MOTHERLY  LOVE 

knew  how  full  the  world  is  of  concoctions  and  lies  and 
mistakes  and  misunderstandings.  My  father  used  to  tell 
a  story  of  a  chum  he  used  to  have  when  he  first  went  to 
sea  as  a  cadet.  A  gold  watch  was  stolen  from  one  of  the 
officers'  cabins  and  —  God  knows  why  !  —  suspicion  fell 
on  the  cadet.  His  mates  avoided  him,  practically  sent 
him  to  Coventry,  and  that  embittered  him  to  such  an 
extent  that  he  became  impossible  to  associate  withj  got 
mixed  up  in  a  row  and  had  to  leave.  Two  years  after 
wards  the  thief  was  discovered,  in  the  person  of  a  boat 
swain;  but  no  satisfaction  could  be  given  to  the  innocent 
boy,  because  people  had  only  been  suspicious  of  him. 
And  the  suspicion  will  stick  to  him  for  the  rest  of  his  life, 
although  it  was  refuted,  and  the  wretch  still  keeps  the 
nickname  which  was  given  to  him  at  the  time.  His  life 
,  grew  up  like  a  house  that's  built  and  based  on  its  own  bad 

vfame,  and  when  the  false  foundation  is  cut  away_  the— 
building  remains  standing  all  the  same;   it  floated  in  the 
air  like  the  castle  in  "The  Arabian  Nights."     You  see  - 
that's  what  happens  in  the  world.     But  even  worse  things 
can  happen,  as  in  the  case  of  that  instrument-maker  in 
Arboga,  who  got  the  name  of  being  an  incendiary  because 
his  house  had  been  set  fire  to;  or  as  happened  to  a  certain 
Anderson,  whom  people  called  Thief  Anders,  because  he 
had  been  the  victim  of  a  celebrated  burglary. 

DAUGHTER.  Do  you  mean  to  say  that  my  father  hasn't  been 
what  I  always  thought  he  was? 

LISE.     Yes,  that's  just  it. 

DAUGHTER.  This  is  how  I  see  him  sometimes  in  dreams, 
since  I  lost  all  recollection  of  him  —  isn't  he  fairly  tall, 
with  a  dark  beard  and  big  blue  sailor  eyes? 

LISE/    Yes  —  more  or  less  ! 

DAUGHTER.  And  then  —  wait,  now  I  remember.  Do  you 
see  this  watch?  There's  a  little  compass  fastened  on  to 
the  chain,  and  on  the  compass  at  the  north  there's  an  eye. 
Who  gave  me  that? 

LISE.     Your  father.     I  was  there  ^/hen  he  bought  it. 


MOTHERLY  LOVE  429 

DAUGHTER.  Then  it's  he  whom  I've  seen  so  often  in  the 
theater  when  I  was  playing.  He  always  sat  in  the  left 
stage  box,  and  held  his  opera  glasses  trained  on  me.  I 
never  dared  tell  mother  because  she  was  always  so  very 
nervous  about  me.  And  once  he  threw  me  flowers  —  but 
mother  burned  them.  Do  you  think  it  was  he? 

LISE.  It  was  he;  you  can  count  on  it  that  during  all  these 
years  his  eye  has  followed  you  like  the  eye  of  the  needle 
on  the  compass. 

DAUGHTER.  And  you  tell  me  that  I  shall  see  him  —  that  he 
wants  to  meet  me?  It's  like  a  fairy  tale. 

LISE.  The  fairy  tale's  over  now.  I  hear  your  mother. 
You  get  back,  I'm-geiftg-first,  toLface  the  fire. 

DAUGHTER.  Something  dreadful's  going  to  happen  now,  I 
feel  it.  Why  can't  people  agree  with  each  other  and  be  at 
peace?  Oh,  if  only  it  were  all  over!  If  mamma  would 
only  be  nice.  I  will  pray  to  God  outside  there  to  make 
her  soft-hearted  —  but  I'm  certain  He  can't  do  it  —  I 
don't  know  why. 

LISE.  He  can  do  it,  and  He  will,  if  you  can  only  have 
faiLbi  have  a  little  faith  in  happiness  and  your  own 
strength. 

DAUGHTER.  Strength?  What  for?  To  be  selfish?  I  can't 
do  it.  And  the  enjoyment  of  a  happiness  that  is  bought  at 
the  cost  of  some  one  else's  unhappiness  cannot  be  lasting, 

LISE.     Indeed?    N^*-gtf-out.      AtJ^L*  ^S3UL  • 

DAUGHTER.  How  can  you  possibly  believe  that  this  will 
turn  out  all  right? 

LISE.     Hush !     (Enter  Mother)     Madam. 

MOTHER.     Miss  —  if  you  don't  mind. 

LISE.     Your  daughter  — 

MOTHER.  Yes,  I  have  a  daughter,  even  though  I'm  only  a 
"Miss,"  and  indeed  that  happens  to  many  of  us,  and  I'm 
not  a  bit  ashamed  of  it.  But  what's  it  all  about? 

LISE.  The  fact  is,  I'm  commissioned  to  ask  you  if  Miss 
Helen  can  join  in  an  excursion  which  some  visitors  have 
got  up? 


430  MOTHERLY  LOVE 

MOTHER.     Hasn't  Helen  herself  answered  you? 

LISE.  Yes;  she  has  very  properly  answered  that  I  should 
address  myself  to  you. 

MOTHER.     That  wasn't  a  straightforward  answer.     Helen, 
my  child,  do  you  want  to  join  a  party  to  which  your  mother 
isn't  invited? 
,  DAUGHTER.     Yes,  if  you  allow  it. 

MOTHER.  If  I  allow  it!  How  can  I  decide  what  a  big  girl 
like  you  is  to  do !  You  yourself  must  tell  the  young  lady 
what  you  want;  if  you  want  to  leave  your  mother  alone 
in  disgrace,  while  you  gad  about  and  have  a  good  time; 
if  you  want  people  to  ask  after  mamma,  and  for  you  to 
have  to  try  and  wriggle  out  of  the  answer,  "  She  has  been 
left  out  of  the  invitation,  because  and  because  and  be 
cause,"  now  say  what  you  really  want  to  do. 

USE.  My  dear  lady,  don't  let's  beat  about  the  bush.  I 
know  perfectly  well  the  view  Helen  takes  of  this  business, 
and  I  also  know  your  method  of  getting  her  to  make  that 
particular  answer  which  happens  to  suit  you.  If  you  are 
as  fond  of  your  daughter  as  you  say  you  are,  you  ought  to 
wish  what  is  best  for  her,  even  though  it  might  be  humili 
ating  for  you. 

MOTHER.  Look  here,  my  girl,  I  know  what  your  name  is, 
and  who  you  are,  even  though  I  haven't  had  the  privilege 
of  being  introduced  to  you;  but  I  should  really  like  to 
know  what  a  girl  of  your  years  has  got  to  teach  a  woman 
of  mine. 

LISE.  Who  knows?  For  the  last  six  years,  since  my  mother 
died,  I  have  spent  all  my  time  in  bringing  up  my  young 
sisters  and  brothers,  and  I've  found  out  that  there  are 
people  who  never  learn  anything  from  life,  however  old 
they  get. 

MOTHER.     What  do  you  mean? 

-  LISE.  I  mean  this.  Your  daughter  has  now  got  an  op 
portunity  of  taking  her  place  in  the  world;  of  either  get 
ting  recognition  for  her  talent  or  of  contracting  an  alliance 
with  a  young  man  in  good  position. 


MOTHERLY  LOVE  431 

MOTHER.  That  sounds  all  very  fine,  but  what  do  you  pro 
pose  to  do  about  me? 

LISE.  You're  not  the  point;  your  daughter  is!  Can't  you 
think  about  her  for  a  single  minute  without  immediately 
thinking  of  yourself? 

MOTHER.  Ah,  but,  mind  you,  when  I  think  of  myself  I 
think  of  my  daughter  at  the  same  time,  because  she  has 
learnt  to  love  her  mother. 

LISE.  I  don't  think  so.  She  depends  on  you  because  you've 
shut  her  off  from  all  the  rest  of  the  world,,  and  she  must 
have  some  one  to  depend  on,  since  you've  stolen  her  away 
from  her  father. 

MOTHER.     What's  that  you  say? 

LISE.  That  you  took  the  child  away  from  her  father  when 
he  refused  to  marry  you,  because  you  hadn't  been  faithful 
to  him.  You  then  prevented  him  from  seeing  his  child, 
and  avenged  yourself  on  him  and  upon  your  child. 

MOTHER.  Helen,  don't  you  believe  a  single  word  of  any 
thing  that  she  says  —  that  I  should  live  to  see  such  a 
day!  For  a  stranger  to  intrude  into  my  house  and  insult 
me  in  the  presence  of  my  own  child ! 

DAUGHTER  (comes  forward).  You  have  no  business  to  say 
anything  bad  about  my  mother. 

LISE.  It's  impossible  to  do  otherwise,  if  I'm  to  say  anything 
good  about  my  father.  Anyway,  I  observe  that  the  con 
versation  is  nearly  over,  so  allow  me  to  give  you  one  or 
two  pieces  of  advice.  Get  rid  of  the  procuress  who  finds 
herself  so  at  home  here  under  the  name  of  Aunt  Augusta 

/  if  you  don't  want  your  daughter's  reputation  to  be  abso 
lutely  ruined.  That's  tip  number  one.  Further,  put  in 
order  all  your  receipts  for  the  money  which  you  had  from 
my  father  for  Helen's  education,  because  settlement  day's 
precious  near.  That's  tip  number  two.  And  now  for  an 
extra  tip.  Leave  off  persecuting  your  daughter  with 
your  company  in  the  street,  and,  above  all,  at  the  theater, 
because  if  you  don't  she's  barred  from  any  engagement; 
and  then  you'll  go  about  trying  to  sell  her  favors,  just  as, 


432  MOTHERLY  LOVE 

up  to  the  present,  you've  been  trying  to  buy  back  your 
lost  respectability  at  the  expense  of  her  father. 
[Mother  sits,  crushed. 

DAUGHTER  (to  Lise).  Leave  this  house.  You  find  nothing 
sacred,  not  even  motherhood. 

USE.     A  sacred  motherhood,  I  must  say ! 

DAUGHTER.  It  seems  now  as  though  you've  only  come  into 
this  house  to  destroy  us,  and  not  for  a  single  minute  to 
put  matters  right. 

LISE.  Yes,  I  did!  I  came  here  —  to  put  right  the  good 
name  of  my  father,  who  was  perfectly  guiltless  —  as 
guiltless  as  that  incendiary  whose  house  had  been  set  on 
fire.  I  came  also  to  put  you  right,  you  who've  been  the 
victim  of  a  woman  whose  one  and  only  chance  of  rehabili 
tation  is  by  retiring  to  a  place  where  she  won't  be  dis 
turbed  by  anybody,  and  where  she  on  her  side  won't  dis 
turb  anybody's  peace.  That's  why  I  came.  I  have 
done  my  duty.  Good-by. 

MOTHER.  Miss  Lise  —  don't  go  before  I've  said  one  thing  — 
you  came  here,  apart  from  all  the  other  tomfoolery  —  to 
invite  Helen  out  to  your  place. 

LISE.  Yes.  She  was  to  meet  the  director  of  the  Imperial 
Theater,  who  takes  quite  an  interest  in  her. 

MOTHER.  What's  that?  The  director?  And  you've  never 
mentioned  a  word  about  it.  Yes  —  Helen  may  go  — 
alone.  Yes,  without  me! 

LISE.  Well,  after  all,  it  was  only  human  nature  that  you 
should  have  carried  on  like  that.  Helen,  you  must  come, 
don't  you  see? 

DAUGHTER.     Yes,  but  now  I  don't  want  to  any  more. 

MOTHER.     What  are  you  talking  about? 

^  DAUGHTER.     No,  I'm  not  fitted  for  society.     I  shall  never 
feel  comfortable  anywhere  where  my  mother  is  despised. 

MOTHER.  Stuff  and  nonsense !  You  surely  ain't  going  to  go 
and  cut  your  own  throat?  Now  just  you  go  and  dress 
so  as  to  look  all  right ! 

DAUGHTER    No,  I  can't,  mother.      I  can't  leave  you  now 


MOTHERLY  LOVE  f  433 

that  I  know  everything,     I  shall  never  have  another  happy 
hour.     I  can  never  believe  in  anything  again. 
LISE  (to  Mother).     Now  you  shall  reap  what  you  have  sown 

—  if  one  day  a  man  comes  and  makes  your  daughter  his 
bride,  then  you'll  be  alone  in  your  old  age,  and  then  you'll 
have  time  to  be  sorry  for  your  foolishness.     Good-by. 
(Goes  and  kisses  Helen's  forehead)     Good-by,  sister. 

DAUGHTER.     Good-by. 

LISE.     Look  me  in  the  face  and  try  and  seem  as  though  you 

had  some  hope  in  life. 
DAUGHTER.     I  can't.     I  can't  thank  you  either  for  your 

good  will,  for  you  have  given  me  more  pain  than  you  know 

—  you  woke  me  with  a  snake  when  I  lay  in  the  sunshine 
by  a  woodland  precipice  and  slept. 

LISE.     Give  me  another  chance,  and  I'll  wake  you  with  songs 

and  flowers.     Good  night.     Sleep  well. 

[Exit. 
MOTHER.     An  angel  of  light  in  white  garments  I  suppose! 

No !     She's  a  devil,  a  regular  devil !     And  you !    How  silly 

you've  been  behaving!     What  madness  next,  I  wonder. 

Playing  the  sensitive  when  other  people's  hides  are  so 

thick. 
DAUGHTER.     To  think  of  your  being  able  to  tell  me  all  those 

untruths.     Deceiving  me  so  that  I  talked  thus  about  my 

father  during  so  many  years. 
MOTHER.     Oh,  come  on!    It's  no  good  crying  over  spilt 

milk. 

DAUGHTER.    And  then  again,  Aunt  Augusta ! 
MOTHER.     Stop    it.     Aunt    Augusta    is    a    most    excellent 

woman,  to  whom  you  are  under  a  great  obligation. 
DAUGHTER.     That's  not  true  either  —  it  was  my  father,  I'm 

sure,  who  had  me  educated. 
MOTHER.     Well,  yes,  it  was,  but  I  too  have  to  live.     You're 

so  petty!    And  you're  vindictive   as   well.     Can't  you 

forget  a  little  taradiddle  like  that?     Hello!    Augusta's 

turned  up  already.     Come  along,  now  let  us  humble  folk 

amuse  ourselves  as  best  we  can.    [Enter  Dresser. 


434  MOTHERLY  LOVE 

DRESSER.    Yes,  it  was  he,  right  enough.    You  see,  I'd  guessed 

quite  right. 

MOTHER.     Oh,  well,  don't  let's  bother  about  the  blackguard. 
DAUGHTER.     Don't  speak  like  that,  mother;    it's  not  a  bit 

true! 

DRESSER.     What's  not  true? 
DAUGHTER.     Come  along.     We'll  play  cards.     I  can't  pull 

down  the  wall  which  you've  taken  so  many  years  to  build 

up.     Come  along  then. 

[She  sits  down  at  the  card  table  and  begins  to  shuffle  the  cards. 
MOTHER.     Well,  you've  come  to  your  senses  at  last,  my  gal. 

CURTAIN 


BIBLIOGRAPHIES 


BIBLIOGRAPHIES 

A  LIST  OF  BOOKS  ON  THE  THEORY  AND  TECH 
NIQUE  OF  THE  THEATRE  AND  THE  DRAMA 

[The  Editor  has  not  attempted  to  make  a  complete  bibliography  of  books 
relating  to  the  drama  and  the  theatre.  The  titles  listed  are  those  which 
contain  matter  of  importance  to  amateurs.] 

GENERAL 

Macgowan,  Kenneth.     "The  Theatre  of  Tomorrow."    Boni  &  Liveright, 

New  York. 

Appia,  Adolphe.    "Die  Musik  und  die  Inscenierung."    Bruckmann,  Munich. 
Archer,  Wm.  and  Barker,  Granville.     "A  National  Theatre."    Duffield  & 

Co.,  New  York. 

Moderwell,  H.  K.    "The  Theatre  of  Today."    John  Lane  &  Co.,  New  York. 
Pichel,  Irving.    "On  Building  a  Theatre."     Theatre  Arts,  Inc.,  New  York. 

ORGANIZATION 

Beegle,  M.  P.  and  Crawford,  Jack.    "Community  Drama  and  Pageantry." 

Yale  University  Press,  New  Haven. 
Burleigh,  Louise.     "The  Community  Theatre."     Little,  Brown  &  Co., 

Boston. 

Dickinson,  T.  H.    "The  Insurgent  Theatre."    B.  W.  Huebsch,  New  York. 
Cheney,  Sheldon.    "The  Art  Theatre."    A.  A.  Knopf,  New  York. 
Hilliard,  E.,  McCormick,  T.,  and  Oglebay,  K.    "Amateur  and  Educational 

Dramatics."    Macmillan  Co.,  New  York. 
Mackay,  Constance  D'Arcy.    "The  Little  Theatre  in  the  United  States." 

Henry  Holt  &  Co.,  New  York. 

PRODUCTION 

Krows,  Arthur  Edwin.    "Play  Production  in  America."    Henry  Holt  &  Co., 

New  York. 

Dickinson,  T.  H.    "The  Insurgent  Theatre."    B.  W.  Huebsch,  New  York. 
Cheney,  Sheldon.    "The  Art  Theatre."    A.  A.  Knopf,  New  York. 

DIRECTION 

Clark,  Barrett  H.    "How  to  Produce  Amateur  Plays."    Little,  Brown  & 
Co.,  Boston. 


438  BIBLIOGRAPHIES 

Hudson,  Holland.    "The  Little  Theatre  Hand-Book."    (In  prep.)    Frank 

Shay,  New  York. 
Stratton,  Clarence.     "Producing  in  Little  Theatres."     Henry  Holt  &  Co., 

New  York. 
Taylor,  Emerson.    "  Practical  Stage  Directing  for  Amateurs."    E.  P.  Dutton 

&  Co.,  New  York. 
Mitchell,  Roy.    "Shakespeare  for  Community  Players."    E.  P.  Dutton  & 

Co.,  New  York. 

COSTUMING 

Calthrop,  Dion  Clayton.     "English  Costume."    A.  &  C.  Black,  London. 
Mackay,   Constance  D'Arcy.     "Costumes  and  Scenery  for  Amateurs." 

Henry  Holt  &  Co.,  New  York. 
"Die  Mode:   Menschen  und  Moden  im  XVII-XVIII-XIX  Jahrhundert." 

6  vols.    Bruckmann,  Munich. 
'Peasant  Art  in  Italy." 
"Peasant  Art  in  Russia." 
"Peasant  Art  in  Austria-Hungary." 
"Peasant  Art  in  Norway  and  Sweden."    International  Studio:    John  Lane 

&  Co.,  New  York. 

SCENE  PAINTING 

Browne,  Van  Dyke.  "  Secrets  of  Scene  Painting  and  Stage  Effects."  Rout- 
ledge,  London. 

Mantzius,  Karl.  "A  History  of  Theatrical  Art  in  Ancient  and  Modern 
Times."  6  vols.  J.  B.  Lippincott  Co.,  Philadelphia. 

Mackay,  Constance  D'Arcy.  "Costumes  and  Scenery  for  Amateurs." 
Henry  Holt  and  Co.,  New  York. 

Rouche,  Jacques.    "L'Art  Theatral  Moderne."    Coraelly,  Paris. 

"Theatrical  Scene  Painting:  a  Thorough  and  Complete  Work  on  How  to 
Sketch,  Paint  and  Install  Theatrical  Scenery."  Appleton  Pub. 
Co.,  Omaha,  Neb. 

ACTING 

Calvert,  Louise.    "Problems  of  the  Actor."    Henry  Holt  &  Co.,  New  York. 
Coquelin,  Constant.    "Art  and  the  Actor."     Columbia  University  Press, 

New  York. 
Filipi,  Rosina.    "Hints  to  Speakers  and  Players."    Longmans,  Green  &  Co., 

New  York. 
Hornblow,  Arthur.     "Training  for  the  Stage:    Hints  for  Those  About  to 

Choose  the  Player's  Career."  J.  B.  Lippincott  &  Co.,  Philadelphia. 
Matthews,  Brander.  "On  Acting."  Charles  Scribner's  Sons.,  New  York. 
Morse,  Elizabeth.  "Principles  of  Expression:  a  Guide  for  Developing 

Readers,  Speakers  and  Dramatic  Artists."    Nixon- Jones  Co. 


BIBLIOGRAPHIES  439 


ANTHOLOGIES  —  ONE-ACT  PLAYS 

"Atlantic  Book  of  Modern  Plays."    Edited  by  Sterling  Andrus  Leonard. 

Atlantic  Monthly  Press,  Boston.    Contains  fifteen  plays. 
"Fifty  Contemporary  One-act  Plays."    Edited  by  Frank  Shay  and  Pierre 

Loving.     Stewart  Kidd  Co.,  Cincinnati.     Contains  fifty  one-act 

plays. 
"One-act  Plays  by  Modern  Authors."     Edited  by  Helen  Louise  Cohen. 

Harcourt,  Brace  &  Co.,  New  York.    Contains  sixteen  one-act  plays. 
"Representative  One-act  Plays  by  American  Authors."    Edited  by  Mar 
garet   G.    Mayorga.     Little,    Brown    &   Co.,    Boston.     Contains 

twenty-four  plays. 
"Representative  One-act  Plays  by  British  and  Irish  Authors."    Edited  by 

Barrett  H.  Clark.    Little,  Brown  &  Co.,  Boston.    Contains  twenty 

plays. 
"Representative   One-act  Plays   by   Continental    Authors."     Edited    by 

Montrose  J.  Moses.    Little,  Brown  &  Co.,  Boston.    (In  prep.) 
"Short  Plays  by  Representative  Authors."     Edited  by  Alice  M.  Smith. 

Macmillan  Co.,  New  York.    Contains  twelve  plays. 
"Vagabond  Plays:    First  Series."     Norman,  Remington  Co.,  Baltimore. 

Contains  six  plays. 
"Contemporary   One-Act   Plays   1921-1 922."      Edited  by   Frank  Shay. 

Stewart-Kidd  Co.,  Cincinnati.     Contains  twenty  plays. 

ANTHOLOGIES  —  LONG  PLATS 

"Chief  Contemporary  Dramatists:  First  Series."  Edited  by  T.  H.  Dickin 
son.  Houghton,  Mifflin  Co.,  Boston.  Contains  twenty  plays. 

"Chief  Contemporary  Dramatists:  Second  Series."  Edited  by  T.  H. 
Dickinson.  Houghton,  Mifflin  Co.,  Boston.  Contains  eighteen 
plays. 

"Chief  European  Dramatists."  Edited  by  Brander  Matthews.  Houghton, 
Mifflin  Co.,  Boston. 

"Chief  Elizabethan  Dramatists."  Edited  by  William  Allen  Neilson. 
Houghton,  Mifflin  Co.,  Boston. 

"Representative  British  Dramas."  Edited  by  Montrose  J.  Moses.  Little, 
Brown  &  Co.,  Boston. 

BIBLIOGRAPHIES 

"A  Second  List  of  Plays  and  Pageants."    Woman's  Press,  New  York. 
"Plays  and  Books  of  the  Little  Theatre."     Compiled  by  Frank  Shay. 

Gotham  Book  Mart,  New  York. 
"One  Thousand  and  One  Plays  for  Little  Theatres."    Compiled  by  Frank 

Shay.    Stewart      dd  Co.,  Cincinnati. 


440  BIBLIOGRAPHIES 

"One  Hundred  and  One  Commendable  Plays."     Compiled  by  the  British 
Drama  League.    Poetry  Bookshop,  London. 

PERIODICALS 

The  Theatre  Arts  Magazine.    Published  by  Theatre  Arts,  Inc.,  7  East  42d 

Street,  New  York  City. 

The  Drama.    Published  by  the  Drama  League  of  America,  Chicago,  111. 
The  Theatre  Magazine.    New  York  City. 

A  LIST  OF  PLAYS  FOR  WOMEN 

[A  selection  of  some  of  the  more  interesting  plays,  not  including  those  re 
printed  in  this  work.  The  number  in  parenthesis  following  the  title  indicates 
the  number  of  characters.  2a,  3a  are  the  number  of  acts.] 

Baker,  Elizabeth.        "Miss  Tassey"  (5).     Sidgwick  &  Jackson,  London. 

(Also    in    "Representative    One-act    Plays    by 

British  and  Irish  Authors."     Little,  Brown,  & 

Company,  Boston. 
Barbee,  Lindsay.         "The  Call  of  Wohelo"  (10)  3a.    T.  S.  Denison  &  Co., 

Chicago. 

Barber,  M.  E.  "Mechanical  Jane"  (3).    Samuel  French,  New  York. 

Barnum,  M.  D.  "The    French    Maid    and    the    Phonograph,"    8w. 

Samuel  French,  New  York. 

Bates,  Esther.  "Engaging  Janet"  (7).    Penn.  Publishing  Co.,  Phila 

delphia. 
Bretherton,  Evangeline.  "The     Minister's     Messenger"     (14).       Samuel 

French,  New  York. 
Bridgham,  Gladys  R.  "A  Modern  Cinderella"  (16),  2a.     W.  H.  Baker  &  Co., 

Boston. 
Brown,  Alice.  "Joint  Owners  in  Spain"  (4).     In  "Eight  One-act 

Plays."      Macmillan,  New  York. 

(Separately  published  by  W.  H.  Baker  &  Co., 

Boston.) 

Butler,  Ellis  Parker.    "The  Revolt"  (8).    Samuel  French,  New  York. 
Cameron,  Margaret.   "The   Burglar"    (5).     Samuel   French,    New   York. 
"The  Piper's  Pay"  (7).    Samuel  French,  New  York. 
Campbell,  M.  D.         "A  Chinese  Dummy"   (6).     W.  H.  Baker  &  Co., 

Boston. 
"An  Open  Secret"  (10),  2a.     W.  H.  Baker  &  Co., 

Boston. 

"Sunbonnets"  (11),  2a.    W.  H.  Baker  &  Co.,  Boston. 
Cannan,  Gilbert.         "Everybody's  Husband"  (6).    B.  W.  Huebsch,  New 

York. 


BIBLIOGRAPHIES  441 

Castell,  C.  A.  "Snowed  Up  With  a  Duchess"  (4).    Samuel  French, 

New  York. 

Clifford,  Helen  C.  "Alice's  Blighted  Profession"  (8).  Fitzgerald  Pub 
lishing  Corp.,  New  York. 

Crane,  Mabel  H.         "The  Girls"  (9).    Samuel  French,  New  York. 

Dale,  Irving.  "Tickets,  Please"  (4).    W.  H.  Baker  &  Co.,  Boston. 

Dane,  Essex.  "Fleurette  &  Co."  (2).  Samuel  French,  New  York. 

"Wrong  Numbers"  (3).  Samuel  French,  New  York. 

Denton,  Clara  J.  "To  Meet  Mr.  Thompson"  (8).  W.  H.  Baker  &  Co., 
Boston. 

Doran,  Marie.  "The  Girls  Over  Here"  (8).  Samuel  French,  New 

York. 

Flexner,  Hortense.  "Voices"  (2).  In  "Representative  One-act  Plays 
by  American  Authors."  Little,  Brown,  &  Co. 
Boston. 

Forrestre,  Emile.         "Mrs.  Willis'  Will"  (5).    W.  H.  Baker  &  Co.,  Boston. 

Froome,  John  Redhead.  "Listening"  (3).  Poet  Lore,  Vacation  Number, 
1917,  Boston. 

Gale,  Elizabeth.  "Aunt  Maggie's  Will"  (10),  3a.  Samuel  French, 
New  York. 

Gale.R.  B.  "The  New  Crusade"   (12).     W.  H.  Baker  &  Co., 

Boston. 
"The  Clinging  Vine"  (16).    Norman,  Lee  Swartout, 

Summit,  tf.  J. 

Gerstenberg,  Alice.      "Beyond"  (1).    In  Mayorga's  "Representative  One- 
act  Plays  by  American  Authors."    Little,  Brown, 
&  Co.,  Boston. 
'"Overtones"  (4). 
"Attuned"  (1). 
"Hearts"  (4). 
^"Beyond"  (1). 

In  "Ten  One- Act  Plays."    Brentano,  New  York. 
Gibson,  Preston.          "Derelicts"  (2).    Samuel  French,  New  York. 

Gould,  Felix.  "In  the  Marshes"  (1).     In  "The  Marsh  Maiden." 

Four  Seas  Co.,  Boston. 

Griffith,  Helen  S.  "A  Man's  Voice"  (6),  2a.  W.  H.  Baker  &  Co., 
Boston. 

Halman,  Doris  F.  "Will  o' the  Wisp"  (4).  In  "Representative  One- 
act  Plays  by  American  Authors."  Little,  Brown, 
&  Co.,  Boston. 


442  BIBLIOGRAPHIES 

Hoof  man,  Phoebe.       "Martha's  Mourning"  (3).    In  "Representative 

act  Plays  by  American  Authors."    Little,  Brown, 
&  Co.,  Boston. 

Elsey,  S.  M.  "Feast  of  the  Holy  Innocents"  (5).    In  "Wisconsin 

Plays,  Second  Series."     B.  W.  Huebsch,    v 
York. 
Jennings,  E.  M.          "Mrs.   Oakley's  Telephone"    (4).     Samuel  French, 

New  York. 
"Dinner  at  the  Club"   (9).     Samuel  French,  New 

York. 
"Prinzessen  von  Barnhoff"  (8).    Samuel  French,  New 

York. 

"Tom's  Fiancee"  (5).    Samuel  French,  New  York. 
Jennings,  Gertrude.    "Between  the  Soup  and  the  Savoury"  (3).    Samuel 

French,  New  York. 
"At  the  Ribbon  Counter"  (3).    Samuel  French,  New 

York. 

Kane,  Helen.  "A  Point  of  Honor"  (5).    W.  H.  Baker  &  Co.,  Boston 

"A  Russian  Romance"  (16),  3a.    W.  H.  Baker  2 

Boston. 

Kemper,  S.  "Moth  Balls"  (3).    W.  H.  Baker  &  Co.,  Boston. 

Kingsley,  Ellis.  "The  Other  Woman"    (2).     W.   H.   Baker  & 

Boston. 
Macmillan,  Mary.       "The  Futurists"  (8).     In  "Short  Plays."    Stewart, 

Kidd  Co.,  Cincinnati. 
"The  Dress  Rehearsal  of  Hamlet"  (10).    In  "M<*> 

Short  Plays."    Stewart,  Kidd  Co.,  Cincinnati. 
"In   Mendelesia."     2  parts    (5).     In   "More   t 

Plays."    Stewart,  Kidd  Co.,  Cincinnati. 
Macnamara,  Margaret.  "The  Witch"  (5).    Daniel,  London. 

Middleton,  George.     "The  Man  Masterful"   (2).     Samuel  French,  New 

York. 
"The  Groove"  (2).    Samuel  French,  New  York. 

M.  J.  W.  "A  Brown  Paper  Parcel"  (2).    Samuel  French,  New 

York. 

Musketry,  William.     "An  Imaginary  Aunt."  (4).     Samuel  French,  New 
York. 

Nevitt,  Mary  Ross.     "The  Rostoff  Pearls"    (7).     Samuel   French,   New 

York. 
O'Neill,  Eugene.          "Before  Breakfast"  (1).    Frank  Shay,  New  Yorl 

Reynartz,  Dorothy.    "Carnival"  (8).    Dramatic. 


969 


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